


The Big Easy

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Deceit, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Molly's dimples are a weapon, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Quick getaways, Relationship Issues, Relationship Negotiation, Revelations, Romance, Secrets Revealed, Sex, Sexual Tension, Voodoo, Weddings, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly Hooper is alone in New Orleans for two weeks and the last person she expects to see shows up and turns her holiday on its side...will they have a wonderful time or will it all be ruined?When the vacation is over, what lays in store for Molly and Sherlock...





	1. Reaching all the awkward bits

**Author's Note:**

> This is not part of my Longings series. This is a fun stand-alone. As always, I do not own these characters.

_New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A._

          Adjusting her floppy, wide brimmed sun hat to the best angle, Molly Hooper surveyed the courtyard poolside of her lovely hotel, and admired the cobbled walkways, lush greenery and colorful exterior paint. The hot Louisiana sun poured bright light over the scene, and mindful of her fair skin, she had arranged her sun lounger under one of the wide umbrellas. With careful application of sun cream, lots of hats, and limited time sun-bathing, she might return from her holidays with a tan.

          It was her third day here, and so far she had kept from burning. The only problem was her back; you needed someone to help you reach all the awkward bits, but who on earth was she supposed to ask? It wasn’t something you could approach a stranger about. Well, it wasn’t something _Molly_ would approach a stranger about. If only Abby were here…Molly sighed for the thousandth time, thinking of her absent friend. Abby and she had worked together at Bart’s in their early days, but Abby had been in America for the past nearly two years, living in Pennsylvania. It was she that had invited Molly to join her in New Orleans for two weeks.

          “Honestly, Molls, it’s meant to be an amazing city, they call it the Big Easy, the city of Jazz!…there’s a drink named a Hurricane, they have casinos and voodoo shops and horse drawn carriages and historical tours!” It was those last two, more than anything, which had enticed Molly.

          Now, here she was, and Abby was stuck in Pennsylvania, firmly tied up in a research project that had cropped up a suddenly and which offered too juicy a reward for her labors. Molly understood, she did; but she was a bit lonely here all by herself, and the idea of two weeks alone was a bit daunting. It wasn’t easy for her to make new friends, as she was shy with strangers, and so far all she had seen were groups: college students drinking too much and staying up most of the night; families with small children in tow; and gaggles of elderly ladies in matching hats, going on tours, buying antiques and feeding their money into the slot machines a quarter at a time.

          It was just gone nine thirty, and the elderly ladies were long gone, having gotten their start shortly after the sun rose; the college students were sleeping off the night; and the families were all in the dining room eating the complimentary breakfast and planning their days. The only other person in sight was a middle aged man in a Panama hat, who was dozing in a lounger in the shady end of the courtyard. With a sigh, Molly reached for her ear buds; she had a huge music library, she might as well listen to her favorites.

          “Babe! There you are, thank Gawd, I thought I might have missed you!” The booming American voice startled Molly and she dropped her ear buds. Automatically looking up to see who was shouting—and who they were shouting at—she froze when she saw Sherlock Holmes striding toward her. At least, she was pretty sure it was Sherlock; a bit hard to say. He was smiling, for a start, which was…different. And his hair was a dark blondish-brown and cut short and neatly styled; then too, he was wearing khaki trousers, a white Guayabera shirt, and deck shoes. _Without socks_.

          “Oh,” Molly said feebly. It was all she could manage. What in the bloody hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be dead, not striding around bellowing and drawing attention to himself. He definitely shouldn’t be approaching her, leaning over and kissing her soundly.

          “I hope you aren’t too mad. You are, aren’t you? I’m really sorry I’m so late, you know what a bitch my job can be. Let’s go to our room and I’ll make it up to you.” He winked and gave her a loving, leering smile.

          “I suppose…” Molly said reluctantly, hoping she sounded like a woman willing to be sweet-talked by her lover, not like a woman gob-smacked to see a “dead” man suddenly walk back into her life, and more than a little light-headed from the kiss. “Let me just get my things.” He helped her gather her bag, towel, magazines and sun cream, then hurried her toward the room.

          They passed the middle-aged man, who had been watching them unabashedly, and who now smirked in a friendly fashion when they went past. Molly’s face flamed. It was still hot when Sherlock chivvied her through the door to her room on the end of one of the long sides of the courtyard and shut the heavy oak door on the curious eyes of the man at the pool.

          “What in the bloody hell—“ Molly started, then lowered her voice, aware that perhaps someone might hear her raised tones through the wall. “What are you doing here?”

          Sherlock unceremoniously dumped her bag on the floor and sat down on the bed. “You don’t have to whisper, Molly, the room isn’t bugged.”

          She shivered, as the idea had never occurred to her, yet was now sounding all too ominously possible. Maybe one of Moriarity’s henchmen was watching her, and that was why Sherlock was here. “Fine,” she said in a normal tone, “I won’t whisper, but Sh—“ she cut herself off again and looked at him uncertainly, “Um, what shall I call you?”

          “Greg Martin is the name I’m using presently. American, manager of a “lube station” in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and your errant boyfriend.” He smirked, “If anyone asks.”

          Molly sat timidly on the bed next to him, “Will anyone ask? Is someone after you?” Am I in danger? She wondered but did not voice her concern aloud.

          “Americans are curious; they might, it’s best to be prepared with a few background details.”

          “So you’re planning on staying then?”

          “It’s best if I lie low for a while, things were getting too hot. Mycroft told me you were here, and I thought I’d pop in.”

          She laughed weakly, “”Pop in,” he says. You nearly gave me heart failure! What if I had screamed your name and then fainted? That would ruin your plan to lie low.”

          Sherlock looked at her as if she’d gone dotty, “Naturally you wouldn’t do that. You’re too dependable to risk my safety like that.”

          She wondered if she should be pleased or offended. Dependable didn’t sound like a compliment; it sounded like a quality you would use to describe a steady, plodding but able work horse. There was no use getting offended, she decided, Sherlock said things like that all the time, and if she took offense to all of them, she’d exhaust herself in a day. Co-workers at Bart’s (none of whom were fans of Sherlock) had told her she should stand up for herself, tell him off. But the thing was that with a few exceptions, Molly knew Sherlock didn’t intend to wound with his words. He wasn’t like other people; he didn’t consider feelings…partly because he considered emotions to be weakness, but also because he didn’t experience them quite like other people and so he didn’t think of how someone might feel.

          Molly knew, however, that deep down, in some ways, he felt things very deeply. She had seen his darkest fears and worries last year when she helped him fake his suicide and the toll it had taken on him to separate himself from the few people he truly cared about.

          “Should I be worried?” She asked now, clasping her shaking hands in her lap to still the tremor. “Is someone after you?”

          “No,” he answered definitively, “I’ve shaken them off, but it’s best if I stay off the radar for a bit.”

          “So…are you staying here? With…me?”

          “You have a second bed which will be unused, and you are here alone for two weeks, I thought it would work out nicely.”

          “Ah,” Molly said calmly, feeling an internal bubble equal parts happiness and panic expand in her chest. “How did you know that I was alone? And how did you know I had come on holiday for two weeks?”

          “The other bed has not been touched, only your things are in the room and you always take two weeks holiday every year.”

          Molly squinted at him suspiciously, “Mycroft has been spying on me for you, hasn’t he?”

          “Possibly.”

          She laughed suddenly, startling him, “Why must you always be so…you? Couldn’t you just have said?”

          “Who else am I supposed to be?” Sherlock asked in complete mystification.

          “Greg Martin, for starters.”

          He actually smiled at her, “ _Touché_ , Molly Hooper.”

         

 

******

 

          “That’s quite the disguise,” Molly said, taking another sip of her second Hurricane. It was quite delicious, and most intoxicating. She had avoided having one until now; a woman alone in a strange city shouldn’t drink too much, anything could happen. But now Sherlock—no, _Greg_ , was here and she felt safe in indulging. He had reluctantly ordered one as well, trying to blend in as a tourist, but had grimaced when he took his first sip. Now, however, well into his first one, he seemed to have relaxed and was playing the part of easy-going Greg the American boyfriend- lube station manager with élan.

          Aside from his faint tan, blonde hair and accent, he was wearing brown contacts. Molly found it quite remarkable how warm they made his gaze feel. Although possibly part of that could be attributed to the tremendous amount of booze in his drink. This might also account for the fact that he was wearing shorts, a New Orleans Saints t-shirt and sandals. It had taken at least thirty minutes for Molly to stop peering under the table at his feet.

          “Gotta blend,” Sherlock said in his American accent. Really, what with the accent and the new look and warm manner, she was starting to feel like she was with Greg Martin instead of Sherlock Holmes. She wondered if part of him were enjoying this foray into being someone different. Probably not, she thought a bit sadly.

          “Greg Martin would definitely ask his girlfriend to dance,” Molly blurted out, seized by a sudden imp of mischief, fueled by Hurricanes. The rousing music had kept her dancing in her seat for some time, and she wanted to get out on the floor and move. It might have been his dedication to the disguise, or maybe it was the Hurricane he was slurping down, but she was shocked to bits when he swept her off her bar stool and onto the dance floor.

          Nearly an hour later they were both sweaty and glowing, and Molly hadn’t laughed so much in ages. Sherlock—or maybe Greg—was a superb dancer; she loved to dance and had taken classes from the age of four to twelve, so she was quite good, but he was really something else. “Gawd,” he drawled, fanning his chest with his t-shirt, “It’s really hot in here.”

          For Molly, who was perpetually chilled in London for most of the year, she actually loved the heat of this Southern city, but the humidity she found enervating. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she stood on tip-toe to get closer to his ear so she could make herself heard over the music. “Let’s take a walk and find someplace with a new drink to try. There might be a breeze outside.”

          There wasn’t much of a breeze, but they ambled down the road arm in arm, through the warm night, flashes of light and music streaming out at them from the clubs, bars and restaurants crowding the French Quarter. Finally they found a place which wasn’t too raucous, and after being greeted by a harried waitress, they asked for the special of the house. This turned out to be a frozen concoction, bright purple, sweet, powerful and garnished with maraschino cherries and sour gummy worms. Molly couldn’t stop giggling at the look on Sherlock’s face, and he finally relaxed and allowed a smile to settle on his lips.

          “Try it, it’s quite good,” Molly urged, “I like it!”

          “It tastes of grape,” he said after taking a drink, “I can’t taste the alcohol, but I know it’s there.”

          It most definitely was; after Molly’s second drink he paid the waitress and steered his “girlfriend” gently outside and flagged down a taxi. There was no way he was trying to walk her back to the hotel in this state, on streets that boasted some of the slickest con artists and pick pockets in America, at this time of night. Sitting down in the grotty backseat of the taxi, he had to admit that he was grateful to ride in comfort to their destination. As his head sank towards the greasy head rest he resolved never to drink again. That last drink had done him in…

 

 

******

 

          “Bloody hell,” Sherlock moaned, squinting as he opened his eyes, and clutching at his aching head as he tried to sit up. Discovering that one’s neck had apparently been broken in the night, and that one’s brains were in imminent danger of sliding right out of one’s skull was a disconcerting feeling. Groaning in pain, he sank back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. “Molly? Are you alive? I think I might be dead.”

          There was no answer, and he frowned. She’d been quite intoxicated the night before…had she vomited and choked and died in the night? With a superhuman effort he managed to prop himself on one elbow and peer around the dim but still too brightly lit room. There was no sign of her, although her bed had been slept in. Heroically ignoring his impending misery, he raised his voice, in case she had gone to use the loo, “Molly?” No answer. Oh bollocks, what if, in her inebriated state, she had wandered off while he lay passed out?

          Sherlock sat up and held his prodigiously heavy head in both hands, then stood up, after one or two aborted tries, and carefully weaved his way across the room to the closed bathroom door. Opening it, he was met with darkness and it required masterful restraint not to whimper when he flipped on the light and dazzling whiteness bounced from every surface. One quick sweep with his eyes was enough to convince him Molly wasn’t in the room.

          “Never. Drinking. Again.” Sherlock muttered as he crossed the room toward the bed. He would try calling her cell phone and if she didn’t answer, he was calling the police. Sod his false identity, Moriarity’s network, and all his hard work. He should have been looking out for Molly, not getting drunk with her and leaving her defenseless. Some unsuspected danger tangled his feet and he face planted on the bed in an inelegant heap. Close examination proved the offending items to be the little pink shirt and the ridiculously small skirt Molly had worn the previous evening. What were they doing on the floor by his bed?

          It took a bit of hunting, but he finally found his mobile, nearly dead, in his trouser pocket and he was just dialing Molly’s phone when he heard someone at the door and a moment later, Molly, laden with a tray, entered.

          “Oh, hello. Good morning,” she greeted him in a soft voice. She shut the door carefully and then stopped. “It’s dreadfully dark in here, could you turn on a lamp? I don’t want to trip and spill this lot.”

          Ignoring the wave of relief which had swept over him, Sherlock turned on the bedside lamp and squinted at her, “Where in the hell have you been?”

          Molly stopped and looked at him quizzically, “I went to fetch coffee and breakfast.”

          “I thought you had died or been kidnapped or wandered off and been stolen by white slavers,” he snapped, remembering the worry he had felt. Emotions were useless, all that worry for nothing. She was fine.

          Molly bit her lip, “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she said sincerely, “I didn’t mean to worry you. I tried to wake you and ask what you wanted. But you shouted and threw my clothes at me.”

          They looked down at the floor, at the clothes in question. “Why did I have your clothes?”

          Her face went pinker than last night’s shirt. “Oh, um…well, you—you undressed me.”

          Unbelievably, Sherlock felt his face heat up. “I did—“ he changed the question into a denial, “—not!”

          She just nodded at him, and then carefully sat the tray down on the small table near the window. “You did though, I remember. I was too knackered to get into my pajamas and you got upset and told me I couldn’t sleep like that and you started pulling my clothes off.” She pressed her lips together, and he thought she was ashamed, until she looked up at him with a mirthful face, “It was quite funny. You were rolling me around on the bed and fussing. But then you couldn’t find my pyjamas and you went to get me yours from your bed but just laid down and fell asleep instead.”

          He couldn’t recall any of that, although he had a confused memory of laughter and tussling. “I’m afraid that I may have had too much to drink.”

          “I’d say we both did,” she chirped cheerfully, and poured a cup of coffee, adding two sugars. “Here, get that in you, you’ll feel better.”

          He regarded it gravely, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

          “Coffee, then lots of water and a paracetamol, then breakfast and a wee bit of the hair of the dog,” At his disbelieving look she smiled, “Trust me, I’ve had experience with hangovers…I was a bit wild in my university days.”

          Surprisingly, the coffee helped, and by the time he had washed two paracetamol down with copious amounts of water, he thought he just might be able to face food. But first he discovered a burning need, which was to empty his suddenly bursting bladder. After a long, satisfying pee, he washed his hands and face, took one appalled look at himself in the mirror, muttered, “Never drinking again,” to his ghastly reflection, and joined her at the table.

          She uncovered plates of toast, scrambled eggs, fruit and bowls of oatmeal. “Mimosa or Bloody Mary?”

          He shuddered, but she insisted it would help, so he chose the Mimosa, which sounded less dangerous. She happily drank the Bloody Mary, crunching the celery garnish with relish. Sherlock was a bit amazed at how perky she was; surely anyone who had been as loopy as she was last night ought to be laid low today. Why, just the ratio of alcohol consumed versus body weight was different in the two of them. Yet there she sat, eating with gusto, hair in a bouncy ponytail and looking far too cheerful in a yellow sundress. The woman who apparently hadn’t been able to undress herself the night prior was now looking human as compared to his unwholesome self. A strange thought occurred to him, and he wondered what she had looked like, divested of her skirt and blouse.

          “What did I shout at you?” Sherlock asked to distract himself.

          “Hmm? Oh, this morning?” Molly blushed, “Erm, you yelled “Purple monsters!” and then you—you kissed me.”

          Never, never ever drinking again, he vowed grimly, polishing off his Mimosa. Clearly, despite his past as a drugs user, he couldn’t hold his liquor, and was prone to any number of foolish and dangerous antics.

          As if reading his mind, Molly buttered the last slice of toast and hunted through the litter on the table to find a miniature plastic tub of jam, “I’m actually surprised the drink hit you that hard…I mean, you have done hard drugs before.”

          “I had a bit of wine on occasion in my university days, but last night was the first time I ever got drunk.”

          “Really?” Molly munched her toast, “I bet you were beautiful in college,” she said with a sigh, “You probably drove all the girls mad.”     

          He snorted, “Hardly. I was years younger, for one thing, and for another, they all hated me.” He frowned; he hadn’t intended to sound so…bitter.

          Sympathy puckered her face, and he was worried she might cry or want to talk about his time at university, which he most assuredly did not wish to remember. “What about you?”  He asked hurriedly, “Did you have lot of friends?” He hardly expected a yes; Molly was very quiet, she must have been terribly shy when she was younger.

          “Oh yes, I had such a lot of friends,” Molly smiled and poured herself another cup of coffee. “I’m still in contact with most of them. We used to get dressed up and go out…oh the dancing we did! I’m afraid I was a bit wild, I used to go up to strange boys and get them to buy us all drinks.” She dimpled, “That’s what I really learned at uni…how to flirt and how to hold my liquor.”

          Fascinating. This was an altogether different version of Molly than he had supposed. Why then was she so awkward around him? He would have asked, only they were interrupted by the ringing of her mobile. “Sorry,” she mouthed, as she answered. Deciding it was an excellent time to make himself presentable; Sherlock gathered clean clothing and locked himself in the bathroom.

          Alone, he stood for a moment, staring into the mirror. He had kissed her? He had undressed her? “ _Never drinking again_.”

 

******

 

          “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” Sherlock shouted to be heard over the bar patrons. They were in a tiny place off an alley, and it was packed with drunken tourists and intoxicated locals. Normally he wouldn’t come to a place like this, but he was both pretending to be a tourist, and also keeping an eye on Molly.  He looked around, “Although I do like the pirate theme.”

          “This drink tastes of black licorice,” Molly said in disappointment, staring unhappily at her glass. “I hate licorice.”

          “It’s the anise,” Sherlock explained, “Green anise and other herbs are used in the absinthe.” He took another sip of his, and matched her face, “Quite disgusting.” He took the glass from her and set them both on the bar. “Let’s go, we’ll find someplace quieter, where we can have dinner and you can order any drink you like.”

          “Okay!” Molly said happily, swinging his hand in hers.

          When in the bloody hell, he wondered, had they begun holding hands? Of course, it was something Greg Martin would do with his girlfriend, he assured himself. Only, why was it _Sherlock_ who was enjoying it so much? And was it Greg or Sherlock who kept thinking about Molly in her bikini?

          Once he had showered and Molly was off the phone with her friend Abby, they had decided to have a quiet day at the hotel, and spent most of the day next to the pool. He hadn’t swam, but he did help Molly get sun cream on all the awkward bits, and he made sure she didn’t stay in the sun too long, and he kept her water glass filled. Well rested and well hydrated, the two of them had finally decided to get out and stretch their legs as the sun started going down; Molly had wanted to try absinthe, but since that proved to be a bust, they were in search of dinner.

          “Here’s a place that looks quiet,” Molly suggested, tugging on his hand. They peered through the open French doors into the cool, dim interior of the long, narrow restaurant. Soft blues was playing, the hum of conversation was low, and the atmosphere was relaxed and welcoming. She smiled at him hopefully and he found himself smiling back. “Looks perfect,” he agreed, guiding her in.

          “No crazy drinks tonight,” Molly sighed, “My liver needs a night off. Maybe just a glass or two of wine.”

          Sherlock smiled, and beckoned the waiter over, and after a whispered consultation he hurried away and Molly regarded her “boyfriend” quizzically, “What are you up to, S-sweetie?”

          “A surprise, for you darlin’,” he drawled sweetly, and winked.

          Molly knew he was just playing a part, but she blushed and felt a fluttering in her chest anyway. She had often dreamed of dating Sherlock Holmes, and tonight it felt like she was getting her wish. Or was she? It wasn’t really like that, since this wasn’t the real way that Sherlock would behave. A little of her happiness left her, but she shook it off and smiled back at him. “I love surprises.”

          A little while later she wasn’t so certain, as she stared at a plate of oysters on the half shell, nestled on a bed of rock salt and accompanied by a plate of lemon slices, and bottles of Worcestershire sauce and Crystal hot sauce. The waiter was followed by another, who brought a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. Molly couldn’t help but clap her hands softly, and this time Sherlock smiled at her genuinely. “Don’t look so worried, you don’t have to help me eat them if you don’t like them. Champagne?” At her excited nod he nodded at the waiter, who expertly uncorked the bottle with a soft pop, and poured them each a fizzing flute.

          “Ohhhhhh...” Molly sighed in wonder at the first sip. This was nothing like any champagne she had ever had before. Feeling delightfully happy, she agreed to try one of the unappetizing looking oysters, and Sherlock gave it a squeeze of lemon and a dash of Worcestershire and she tipped back her head and let it slide in. The sensation was the worst part, Molly decided as she chewed it worriedly, feeling slightly queasy. “I like the taste,” she offered weakly.

          “Next one just savor the flavor then swallow it whole,” he suggested. He had already enjoyed two to her one, and she was relieved to think that if she didn’t want any more he really would eat them.

          His suggestion was a good one, and she employed it to have two more oysters, but then left the rest to him. “You should try them grilled,” Sherlock mused, “I think you would like the flavor and texture more.” Molly hummed an absentminded agreement, but really she just wanted to sip her champagne and watch him eat.

          His lovely, soft, full lips parted, a tip of the oyster shell and a flash of his teeth and then his beautiful jaw worked as he chewed, then his long, strong throat convulsed, convulsed again and he licked his lips.

          Molly nearly swooned. Between the candlelight, the romantic music, the champagne and this beautiful, beautiful man, she was in a haze of desire.

 

******

 

          There was nothing, Molly reflected sadly, quite like being dumped at the entrance to your hotel by your “date” and told he had things to attend to, and going to bed alone, waking up alone and spending the morning alone to make you feel about as small and inconsequential as a tick.

          She wandered the Mardi Gras display at the Louisiana State Museum at The Presbytere aimlessly. It was beautiful and fascinating, but she was afraid she wasn’t paying it due attention. All she could think about was Sherlock. At least she knew he was still alive; upon waking and seeing his bed unslept in and seeing no sign that he had returned all night, she had panicked and called his mobile. He hadn’t answered, but a short time later she received a text from him, letting her know he was alright, and that he would see her for dinner. Rather than mope about the hotel all day, she had come out to experience breakfast at the famous Café Du Monde, and do some sightseeing.

          Hopeful that she would in fact be seeing him again, and that he might still want to spend time with her, Molly had chosen things she thought he might not like: a sugary breakfast at a place packed with tourists, a visit to a palmist and now the museum. Perking up at the idea of seeing him in a few hours, she stopped at the gift shop to purchase a gorgeously decorated and feathered mask for her best friend Meena, and another for Abby. Leaving the museum she walked the few blocks to the French Market; it spanned six blocks and was packed with people. There were foods, fresh produce, all sorts of items for sale.

          Wandering happily, Molly bought a box of pralines for Mike Stamford, and stopped at a boutique to look at the gorgeous display of jewelry. Thinking her mother might like one of the necklace and earring sets, she wasn’t really shopping for herself. But then she saw a wonderfully crafted and obviously quite old ring nestled in a bed of velvet on one of the display shelves. She gasped and the vendor came forward smiling, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That’s a poison ring. Well, they also called them locket rings or box rings. You’ll see a lot of them for sale in N’Orleans, but most of them are replicas. This is the genuine article.”

          They chatted as he brought out the ring and let Molly try it on; it fit perfectly on her pinky, and she turned her hand this way and that as she admired the light playing on the heavy gold embossing, and studied the deep red of the garnet on top of the bezel. This lifted up and revealed a tiny compartment, where, according to the vendor, mementos of the dead, scraps of saints’ relics, or poison could be concealed.

          “It’s just lovely,” Molly said, regretfully pulling it from her finger, “But I’m afraid I can’t afford it.” She pointed at the initial item which had caught her eye, “I quite like the look of that for my mother, however, how much is it?”  


 

******

 

          Shopping and sightseeing had quite worn Molly out, and she debated walking to the nearest streetcar line and returning to the hotel for a snack and a nap, or pressing on and having lunch. The cobbled streets of the French Quarter were murder on her feet and ankles, even in sensible trainers. But as she stopped to listen to a trio of school age boys, who surely should have been in school, play a jazzy version of “When the Saints Come Marching In” she caught a whiff of a wonderful smell and followed her nose to a narrow restaurant tucked in an alley. It was almost deserted, as it was nearly two o’clock, and she was seated right away. After the heat of her walk, she was happy to sit and drink iced tea and order a bowl of gumbo. The waiter convinced her to try it with a couple of drops of hot sauce, and while it made her eyes water, it was so good she couldn’t stop eating it.

          Refreshed, she gathered up her purchases, tipped her friendly young waiter generously, and walked toward the streetcar stop. Time for her to return to the hotel, shower and then take a nice long nap. She was looking forward to her dinner with Sherlock. Molly wove her way through the crowds on the street, happily unaware that she had been followed all day.


	2. Voodoo Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh so much fun in store for Molly and Sherlock. This chapter frankly got a bit silly, but damn did I have fun writing it. The rating might possssssibly have edged from Mature to Explicit, but I don't really think so. Anyways, there's sex and sexy type language used, so brace yourself kiddies.

          Wearily, Sherlock let himself into the hotel room, and stopped in the dark entryway as he realized he wasn’t alone.

          Curled on her side, smelling deliciously of jasmine and vanilla, and wearing a lacy camisole and a tiny pair of boxers, Molly was fast asleep, one hand cradling her cheek and the other tucked between her breasts. Her damp hair was tangled on the pillow and for just a minute, Sherlock imagined shucking off his clothes and curling up behind her, burying his nose in her hair and sleeping with her.

          Straightening, he went and shut himself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. He was exhausted from a night walking the city and a day spent ducking in and out of shops, and trying to avoid being spotted. Lathering himself gratefully in the warm spray from the rain head, he reflected on how pathetic he had been to spend the night wandering the city and then follow Molly all day. She had looked a bit lonely, and he had wanted to join her. But then he thought of her shining face at the table the prior night and knew that a little distance had been good.

          This was just a brief hiatus from his current reality; soon he would return to dismantling Moriarity’s network and facing danger almost daily. Molly had no place in that shadow world, and to keep her dangling would be dangerous and selfish.

          In his haste to clean off, he had neglected to grab any clean clothes. Normally undress did not bother him; but given Molly’s pink cheeks and shining eyes last night, he hesitated to stride from the bathroom naked, in case she had woken. Finally he shrugged and wrapped one of the skimpy towels around his waist.

          His concern was for nothing. She hadn’t woken, not even moved. Sherlock dropped the towel, hunted around for clean pants and a pair of pajama bottoms and thought he heard a gasp. Whirling around he searched Molly’s sleeping face hard. It was difficult to tell in the dim room, but she didn’t appear to have moved. Dressing, he lay down on his own bed and hoped he could nap for some time before Molly woke.

 

 

 

******

          _Maybe I shouldn’t drink_ ; Molly thought as she boarded the streetcar and thanked Sherlock for his assistance. He found her an empty seat and stood next to her, hanging from the strap. She loved these quaint, charming conveyances, and while she would have liked him to be able to sit next to her, it was pleasant having the curves and bumps of the tracks swing his body into her shoulder. _Pathetic_ , she told herself, but she didn’t care. She’d had a crush on him for years, and while she knew that her “relationship” with “Greg” wasn’t real, she had decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

          But no more scaring him off. She was pretty sure that was what had happened the night before; she had bought a little too deeply into the fake romance and he had bolted. When he finally returned, he had acted friendly, but a little aloof, and she suspected her guess was a good one. But she had seen him naked. A wicked smile dimpled Molly’s cheeks; the sound of Sherlock showering had woken her, but she decided to pretend to still be asleep to give him privacy. A peep at him when he exited the bathroom confirmed her suspicion that he hadn’t taken any clothes in with him, and she had firmly shut her eyes, intending on being a lady and not taking a peek.

          However, temptation had gotten the better of her, and she opened her eyes only to find him bending over his bed, completely and gloriously naked. “Wicked, wicked girl,” Molly murmured to herself, as she pictured his naked arse.

          “What’s that, babe?” Sherlock asked, leaning over.

          “Nothing, Greg.” She smiled up at him, “Despite my lunch I’m starving, I can’t wait to get to the restaurant.”

          “Tonight, you try grilled oysters,” he commanded.

          “Aye, aye, sir!” She chirped and saluted him, and he grinned at her. Good, perhaps things were back to normal. Or as normal as pretending to date a dead man could get.

          The restaurant proved to be an excellent choice, they each ordered different chargrilled oysters, and Sherlock was right, she loved them. “These are delicious,” she cooed, licking melted butter off her fingers and lips, and trying to chase a runaway drop with her tongue. Catching sight of Sherlock watching her disapprovingly, she ducked her head and reached for her napkin. “Sorry,” she muttered, utterly embarrassed.

          He was rather silent the rest of the meal, and she began to worry that she had annoyed him. Molly knew that Sherlock regarded the body as transport and he rarely ate and frankly she was amazed that, disguise or no, he had done as much eating and drinking as he had the last several days. Maybe he was disgusted by her table manners. Her face flamed and she had trouble finishing her meal.

          The mood lifted when they left the restaurant and began to walk towards their next destination. “This should be fun,” she tried timidly. They had been walking in silence and she was beginning to get nervous. Obviously their wonderful holiday together was over…any minute she expected him to say something nasty and then disappear for good.

          Surprisingly, he smiled down at her and agreed, “I hope you’ll like this even more than dinner. I prefer classical music, but I’ve always wanted to come here.”

          The crowded venue into which they squeezed after paying their entrance fee to Preservation Hall was packed to the gills with a sweating, ecstatic crowd which still managed to dance despite being crowded so closely together. Sherlock wanted to see the jazz musicians up close, so she clung to him and let him blaze a trail through the first comers until they were close to the low stage. She was slightly alarmed at how energetic everyone was, but before long she became caught up in the music and forgot that she was shorter than just about everyone there. Sherlock saw that she was having trouble holding her own and he motioned her to wiggle in front of him and he put his arms protectively about her.

          Hours later, sweaty, dizzy and drained, they staggered out of the hall and into the night with the other revelers, and it was hard to say whether the music or the hours-long embrace had affected them more. Molly tripped along at Sherlock’s side, her arm hooked through his elbow, drunk on music and love. She was utterly unsuspecting when he abruptly pushed her up against a wall and kissed her. It was a wonderful kiss, sweet and intense and it went on forever. By the time he pulled away, Molly had irrevocably given her heart to him.

 

******

 

          “Take the picture!” Molly pleaded, “My ice cream is melting all over my hand!” She bounced a little with impatience and he rolled his eyes at her over her mobile. Unable to bear it, she ducked her head to lick a trail of ice cream off of her wrist.

          “Stand still or I’ll never get the picture right.” He framed the shot again and took several pictures before he was satisfied. “There,” he said, handing her back her phone, “There were several good ones.”

          The two of them had been to explore the beautiful architecture of the St. Louis Cathedral, and now they were walking around historic Jackson Square while Molly ate her ice cream. She had gotten lots of pictures of architecture, greenery, street performers, the river and other things, but, as Sherlock pointed out, she wasn’t in any of them. He had been taking pictures of her all day long and Molly had stopped feeling self-conscious about how she looked in them and instead was just happy that he cared enough to do it for her.

          Something had changed last night. They returned to their hotel room and while nothing happened, Sherlock had slid onto the bed next to her and somewhat tentatively put his arms around her. Once she had made it clear that she invited his embrace, they lay facing one another for hours, hugging and kissing. Molly could tell he wanted more, physically at least, but he never tried, and she didn’t want him to think it was a problem, so she didn’t ask what was wrong. A tiny part of her was convinced he didn’t feel attraction to her, but she knew that wasn’t it. Last night’s cuddling had made that hugely clear. So to speak.

          Her own thoughts made her face go red, and Sherlock, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, easily deduced the direction of her thoughts and smirked to himself. His Molly was having impure thoughts. Well, she could join the club; he’d been having them all week.

          “Where to next?” He asked, hugely patient. Molly bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly, “Well…”

          “What?”

          “I did want to go to a voodoo shop.” She cringed as if she expected him to sneer at her, and Sherlock actually felt ashamed when he realized how used to his being a dick Molly had become. He took her sticky hand in his, manfully not grimacing at the sensation, and pulled her along the street. “I know you probably think its silly nonsense, but—“

          “Voodoo is fascinating,” Sherlock surprised her by saying, “it has many aspects which conform to certain tests which have been conducted in regards to the power of faith to effect healing, and of course there is a certain amount of mental persuasion to it—do people believe because they receive proof? Or do they receive “proof” because they believe?”

          Uncaring what his agreeable attitude could be attributed to, Molly seized the opportunity to indulge, and they entered one of the store fronts together. Sherlock peered into cases, picked up items, leafed through books and observed the clientele and the staff as well. Molly contented herself with studying all the paraphernalia and searching for souvenirs. With a giggle, she selected a voodoo doll for Mrs. Hudson, and after glancing at Sherlock to determine his back was to her, she slipped to one end of the counter to take a closer look at a display of items which were labeled “Love Charms.”

          “Hello, child,” a soft voice greeted her, and with a start Molly saw a small, elderly black woman sitting on a low stool in the corner, fanning herself with a palm fan stamped with a saint’s image. “You lookin’ for somethin’ to catch yore young man?”

          “Oh,” faltered Molly, “Well, I mean—I erm, well, no. That is—“ she checked to make sure that Sherlock was still nose-deep in a book. “I was just curious.”

          “Of course you were, everyone wants love. Love is the thing all creatures need after dey have air, full bellies and a roof over dey head.” She stopped fanning and leaned forward, “But do you want him to love you? Or do you want him to love you because you bought a charm to catch ‘im?”

          “I want him to love me.” Molly confessed, whisper soft.

          “Leave that potion be then. Either he will love you, or he won’t child. But if he love you without a charm, you know he _really_ love you.” Nodding, she suddenly became brisk, “Now, dat doll right there, she $8 but I have a much nicer one here for $12.”

 

******

 

          Sherlock could speed read. He had found it an endlessly useful tool in his line of work, and he had been utilizing it to check out the selection of books in the small shop. That was, he had been until he caught the sound of Molly Hooper talking to an elderly woman and admitting she wanted him to love her.

          He stared sightlessly at the book in his hands, and told himself sternly to walk out right then and there. _Leave, don’t turn around. Forget Mycroft and his unreasonable demand that you spend two weeks in New Orleans with Molly Hooper for whatever preposterous reason he had_. But he couldn’t. For some reason, despite the automatic instinct to run that had hit him when he heard Molly wishing for his love, his feet were rooted to the ground. As if he had been blinded by a voodoo charm, he closed his eyes and for one brief moment let himself imagine loving Molly Hooper.

 

******

 

          “Oh my God, my feet are killing me,” Molly moaned as she staggered into the room. “At this point I hope they drop off. It couldn’t possibly hurt any worse!” She flopped backwards onto her bed, arms spread, and let her bags drop onto the floor.

          Shutting the door, Sherlock shook his head, “Why on earth did you wear those flimsy sandals today?” He surveyed her feet in their cute white strappy sandals, showing off her pink Hello Kitty pedicure. His lips twitched but he absolutely refused to be charmed by her toes.

          Molly mumbled but didn’t really answer. Mostly because she didn’t want to admit that she had worn them so she could look nice for him. They went so much better with her denim shorts and halter top than trainers would have. Not that he had indicated, by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that he noticed what she wore.

          Unknown to her, Sherlock had been admiring everything from her hair all the way down to her feet all day. He had considered saying something but decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. Knowing him he’d only cock it up.

          Molly finally pushed herself off the bed. “I’m going to change into my suit and go soak in the hot tub.” She paused on her way to the bathroom, “Do you want to join me?”

          He balanced her hopeful expression against his desire to sit in a hot tub full of roiling germs and politely declined.

          Fifteen minutes later, when he chanced to glance out the window and see Molly sitting between two college boys, he changed his mind.

          “You have the cutest accent,” one of the idiots was saying as he approached. “I love listening to you talk.”

          “Thanks,” Molly said, flustered. She looked up and saw Sherlock and his heart expanded to fill his chest when she sat up straight and positively transmitted delight on the sight of him. He was fairly positive it wasn’t just because he was about to rescue her from slavering idiots. “S-sweetheart!”

          “Hey babe,” he said, stepping into the water and sitting next to her. The idiots, both of whom had been sitting too close, shifted farther away. Sherlock summoned Greg Martin and kissed the hell out of Molly, who melted against his chest and made little mewling noises when he finally pulled away. Arranging her legs over his, he turned to the idiots, and smirked arrogantly, “”sup,” he greeted them succinctly.

          “Hey,” “’sup,” they responded sluggishly, and after a few minutes of awkward conversation, they disappeared.  Molly looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked at Molly and they burst into laughter.

          “That was awesome,” she giggled, sliding down a little in the water. He looked at her flushed face and knew he was screwed.

          “Bedroom,” he said hoarsely, and after a moment, Molly came out of her shock and nodded, open-mouthed. Scrambling out of the water, she nearly tripped, and he knew she was horribly embarrassed and feeling like an idiot. Before she could start dithering and apologize, he surged out of the water beside her, scooped her up and carried her across the courtyard. “Get the door,” he suggested thickly, and she looked at him hopelessly, “My room key is on the deck chair with my towel.” She bit her lip and he cursed roundly, set her down, kissed her into the door and telling her to stay put, he practically ran across the courtyard, grabbed the key, and in the blink of an eye he had the door open and was hurrying her inside.

          Unminding of their wet suits, he pushed her onto the bed and crawled over her, kissing her eagerly. Molly gasped for air and he was vaguely aware of her hands touching him everywhere. It would be rude not to reciprocate, so he happily joined her in touching everywhere he could get his hands. Annoyed by her tiny bikini, he jerked at the damn thing but couldn’t get it off. “I can’t get the damn thing off,” he groaned.

          She sat up, almost smacking him in the face, and he reared back so she could get her hands behind her to unfasten the contraption that was holding up her breasts. Freed of her top she hesitated for just a moment, and to his shame, Sherlock, looking into her eyes, knew that she was thinking about his comments regarding the size of her breasts. “I was wrong,” he said in a low voice, reaching to cup them in his hands, her cool flesh pebbling against his palms. “They are perfect.” Unsure if he was still channeling Greg Martin or not, he threw caution to the wind, “You are perfect.”

          Molly was completely naked and trying to pull his wet swim trunks down, but was hampered by the fact that they were wet and snug, his erection kept getting in the way, and most importantly, that Sherlock was pressed against her from shoulder to groin, hardly willing to let her up. “Let me up,” she panted, “I want to touch you.”

          Unwilling to stop kissing her and kneading the fantastically soft skin of her buttocks in his hands, he mumbled, “No,” against her lips and started nibbling on her neck. She giggled and tried to squirm away, but he followed her and kept nuzzling her, and after a moment she was aware that he was murmuring, apparently to himself, “Thank you, Mycroft.”

          _What in the hell?_ She wondered, but then forgot it when he suddenly moved one of his hands from her arse and slipped it between her legs. She held her breath, and realized he was holding his too. “What?” she finally asked, voice strangled. Had he changed his mind? Before doubt could hit her, he sighed and asked if she had any condoms.

          “No,” Molly said, ready to cry. “I’m on birth control though.”

          “Shame on you Molly Hooper, you know I’m an intravenous drug user. I was clean the last time I was checked, but you can never be too safe.” Sherlock sat up and dragged one hand down his face, looking wilder and rougher than she had ever seen him. She knew just how he felt. If he offered to stop now she might murder him.

          “Hold on,” he commanded, jumping up and tugging at his wet shorts and then giving it up. Unmindful of his perfectly outlined erection, he sprinted down the courtyard and pounded on one of the doors. After a minute it was opened and one of the idiots from the hot tub blinked owlishly at him, before he seemed to see Sherlock’s obvious arousal. “Dude,” he said is shock, holding out staying hands, as if Sherlock were there for him.

          “I know you have condoms, one of you idiots must have. Gimme.” Sherlock forgot his American accent and his persona and glared with all the cold, terrifying fury of Sherlock Holmes.

          “Dude, what the fuck?” he heard from inside the room, but he remained focused on his quarry, who looked confused. “Dude,” he said slowly, “You want my condoms?”

          “Give them to me now, or I crush your windpipe.” Sherlock curled his arm around the idiot’s throat and smiled menacingly. “Now.”

          “Dude,” his victim said in a voice strangled by fear and Sherlock’s forearm, “Give him some fucking condoms!”

          One of the other morons in the room finally produced one from a box, but Sherlock just sneered at him, “The whole box.”

          Once it was in his hand he was already turning to go, but he heard from inside the room, “Dude seriously needs to get laid!”

          “Yes I do,” Sherlock affirmed grimly. He threw dignity out the window and ran back down the courtyard, narrowly avoiding the family emerging from the room next to theirs. The father pulled his children back and the wife squawked in alarm when he dashed past. Thrusting the key into the lock, Sherlock held up the box of condoms, looked the man straight in the eyes and told him, “You might want to take the family out for a nice, long carriage tour after dinner.”

          “Dude,” he heard somewhat reverently from behind him, but he was already slamming the door shut and trying to pull off his trunks at the same time as he crossed the room. He stopped when he nearly brained himself on the bathroom door handle. After his mad, undignified, frankly ridiculous romp through the hotel, he wondered why he suddenly felt embarrassed. But meeting Molly’s eyes and walking the stretch of carpet to get to her suddenly seemed terribly daunting.

          In his absence she had turned on lamps and climbed under the covers, and he wondered if she were trying to slow things down. When she spoke, he knew that she was.

          “Sherlock,” Molly smiled but she wasn’t looking quite at him, instead toying with the comforter. “Erm, can you do something for me?”

          The idea of drowning himself in the hot tub if she wanted to call this off crossed his mind, but he squared his shoulders and asked what she wanted.

          “Um…could you…take out your contacts?” She finally peeped at him above the comforter and he saw how pink her cheeks were. She was adorable. She was embarrassed. She was definitely not calling this quits.

          “Certainly,” he said, trying to sound like he had control of himself, and not like he wanted to howl because this meant a delay. He had his contacts out in record time, and approached the bed a tad hesitantly. Molly smiled welcomingly and threw back the covers. OH. She was naked and now that he wasn’t on top of her, Sherlock could appreciate every bit of her.

          “Sherlock,” Molly finally said in a small voice, “Is everything alright?”

          Looking into her eyes, he knew that what she really meant was whether or not she was alright; if she was enough for him. “God yes,” he sighed, and crawled into bed with her.

          Now that some of the urgency had been controlled, he felt embarrassment creeping over him, and he wondered if this were the best idea—oh, oh dear Holy Mother of—he sucked in a strangled breath and looked in stunned amazement at Molly Hooper, who had just slid down in the bed and taken him in her mouth. Several things floated into his head but they left again before he could grasp them. Attempts at logical thought abandoned him and he lay back and let sensation wash over him. This was more glorious than the high from drinking, perhaps even more so than heroin.

          Given how long it had been since he had self-pleasured, and given that this was his first experience with oral sex, he would have expected to orgasm in very short order. However, Molly had a firm grip on the base of his penis and she prolonged the pleasure until his head was swimming and he found himself gasping for air. “Molly,” he finally managed, “Are you trying to kill me for real?”

          Taking pity on him, she concentrated all her attention on the sensitive underside of his shaft and within seconds he shook with his release, spilling ejaculate all over his belly, her face and the sheets. Appalled at his lack of control and his ungentlemanly behavior, he opened his mouth to apologize, but the words dried up when Molly kissed her way up his body and then found his mouth. Deciding that she obviously wasn’t offended, he abandoned his idea of apologizing in favor of reciprocation.

          The only problem was, he discovered, as he worked his way toward sexual nirvana, was that he had never done this before. And despite all his immense knowledge, he didn’t have much in the way of practical experience when it came to sex. Certainly not in the art of cunnilingus. When he raised his head from between Molly’s thighs and confessed that, she actually winked at him, tweaked his nose, and said, “Well for starters, don’t call it the art of cunnilingus, genius.”

          Unsure if he were being insulted or not, and feeling out of his depths, Sherlock stared at her until she smiled tenderly, “Sherlock, love, you’re doing just fine. If you want, I can tell you what I like and you can do that. Or,” she said, a sudden light coming into her eyes, “You can experiment and discover for yourself what I like.”

          He very nearly told her he loved her. Instead, he gave the inside of her thigh a nip and said, “Bless you, Molly Hooper.” He was free to _experiment._

******

 

          _I thought I was being sooooo clever_ , Molly thought foggily, _well look at what it got me._ Sherlock, unsurprisingly, felt right at home conducting an experiment; what was surprising was how quickly the lad caught on. She had lost count of her orgasms. And they hadn’t even gotten to the main event yet. _I have to say something_ , she resolved, _otherwise I’ll just dissolve and only then will he notice._

“Sherlock,” she tried to say, but her throat was parched from all the panting and her voice was hoarse from moaning and wailing. She tried again, “Sherlock!”

          He raised his mussed head and tried to focus on her face, after a minute he seemed to realize that he was looking at her and smiled. Despite herself she felt all gooey inside at his happy expression. “That feels marvelous, but I’ve screamed myself dry. I’d love a glass of water.”

          “Oh, yes of course.” He stood up, trying to suppress a grimace at straightening up from one position after so long. “Come to think of it, I could use a drink of water also.”

          _Small wonder_ , she thought wryly. She accepted gratefully the glass he brought her, and drained it dry. He did the same then refilled both glasses and sat on the edge of the bed as she sipped her second glass. “I take it from all the shouting and moaning my name that I did alright?” He looked at her so innocently that Molly had a momentary suspicion that he was having her on. She searched his gaze but thought he was serious.

          “You’re bloody phenomenal,” she assured him, “But I can only come so many times before I get too tender.” At his slightly confounded look she specified, “My lady parts, they get tender from too much use.” Walking her fingers up his bare, sweaty chest, she smiled, “Wouldn’t you like to move on to round two, so to speak?”

          “Actual intercourse, you mean?”

          She bit back a smile, “Yes, exactly.”

          “But if you’re getting too tender…”

          “I’m not! I’m fine!” She hastened to assure him, “Besides…wonderful though it has been, I’m sure you’re ready as well.” Dropping her eyes meaningfully to his proudly jutting cock, she followed it with a long, slow stroke of her hand down his length. He shuddered in pleasure, and laid down next to her, running his hand up and down her body as she enjoyed stroking the silky length in her hands. “Molly,” he all but sighed, “That feels wonderful…”

          Much as she wanted to roll him onto his back and mount him, she hesitated to make him uncomfortable. This was Sherlock, after all, he wasn’t quite like other people and he might want to maintain as much control as possible. Skimming her fingertips lightly over his groin, she kissed the side of his neck, “Not to be indelicate, but, erm, how would you like to do this?” She paused and then asked awkwardly, “ _Have_ you ever done this?”

          “Only when I was high,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “I anticipate this to be much more intense in a different way. I look forward to comparing the sensations.”

          “Oh good,” Molly said faintly. Suddenly the experiment idea didn’t seem so fun.

          Sherlock must have noticed that she seemed subdued. He peered at her closely, and then said, “Ah,” very knowingly, as if he had deduced her. “I made a social error. You don’t wish to hear of my prior experiences, particularly as they pertain to drug use.”

          “That’s not it,” she admitted, “I just, erm, well, I hope you aren’t doing this just as an experiment.”

          His expression cleared, “Oh no, Molly Hooper, this is more than that. I want you,” and he set about proving it.

          As first times can be between new lovers, it was a bit awkward, and also glorious, and messy and tender and all too brief. Molly was so primed that it didn’t take long for Sherlock’s smooth, ceaseless sliding in and out of her body to send her spiraling into an intense orgasm; and as she gripped his lean hips with her legs and cried out her pleasure in his neck, her convulsing catapulted him into his own orgasm and he pulsed helplessly against her body.

          Afterward they lay in sticky splendor, tangled together, his head mashing her breast, and he panted happily, “Oh Molly! That was even better than I anticipated!”

 

******

 

          After the second and third times, after the neighbor had pounded on the wall, then come and pounded on the door and asked them for God’s sake to get some sleep and to remember there were children next door, and almost immediately before the fourth time, Sherlock remembered something.

          “Molly…”

          “Mmm?” She murmured dreamily, her head on his chest.

          “Why did you want me to take out my contacts?”

          She went still, and he realized that she was hoping he would forget and go to sleep or initiate sex again. Following a long pause, she finally admitted, “I wanted to look into your eyes and see Sherlock Holmes, not Greg Martin, when we ma—when we had sex.”

          _Made love_ , he thought, _that’s what she was going to say_. For some reason the thought was tremendously arousing; not just that she wanted _him_ , Sherlock, but that she wanted to make love with him. Even though it really should not have been physiologically possible, Sherlock found he was ready for the fourth time. Kissing his lover, he was glad he had demanded the whole box. He had a lot of love to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duuuuuuuude.


	3. Lover's Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out and Sherlock is starting to feel...Sherlock is starting to feel. Will he stay or will he abandon Molly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have come to the end of our tale, I hope you enjoyed it. Fair warning, I am adjusting the rating to Explicit, cuz I stepped up the game in this chapter. I blush even as I post.  
> If you enjoyed my little tale, I would love comments. Feedback is always welcome, and if you have any suggestions for future story ideas, let me know!

          Regretfully forgoing the more charming, but slower, ride on a streetcar, Molly opted to flag down a taxi. Opening the back door, she was relieved to see that while it was an older model it appeared quite clean; some of the taxis she had seen in New Orleans were appalling icky, probably only natural when they transported so many drunken tourists, but still. Sliding onto the seat, she greeted the driver cheerfully, but surreptitiously checked to make sure there was an inside door handle mechanism before she closed the door. She had seen all the horrible ways people could kill other people and Sherlock’s comment about white slavers was still in the back of her mind.

          Sherlock…Molly sighed and melted against the back of the seat, the carnival of the French Quarter passing unseen outside her window. Instead she was transported back to the night just passed; it flickered in her head like a lantern show, dreamy images of tangled limbs and naked flesh, soft lips and creased sheets. They had finally exhausted themselves before dawn, and she was achingly aware of just how much they had overdone it, but she wouldn’t have changed a moment of it.

          Unable to stop smiling, Molly had to blink back tears at how stupendously over the moon she was right now; never mind what the future would bring, for now she was in love with Sherlock and he was if not in love, at least in lust with her. _He must love you a little_ , her naïve inner Molly whispered hopefully _, last night he didn’t want to let you go._

          “He’s an addict,” Molly said, “He’s just discovered another pleasure.”

          “Just a few more blocks, ma’am,” the driver said over his shoulder. He was a taxi driver in New Orleans he was used to people talking to themselves.

          _It isn’t like that, think about how he looked at you last night, and how he didn’t want to let you get up, not even to use the loo._

“Exactly,” Molly said, but softer, “He wanted to get his fix.”

          _No, it was more than that…that last time he looked into your eyes and it was so slow and sweet. He may not be in love with you, but he does love you._

          “He loves me. Sherlock loves me.” Molly smiled and then found she was grinning from ear to ear. Damn the future, right now he loved her.

          Paying the driver, she wished him such a happy good morning that he drove off shaking his head. She might be crazy, but at least she was cheerful.

          Embarrassment had kept her from telling the driver her true destination, instead having him drop her off down the block. Now she approached the store with trepidation, cheeks red; it wasn’t that she hadn’t been in such places before, but never ones that so obviously displayed their wares. Eyes averted from the eighteen inch long dildo in the front window, she ducked inside quickly and mumbled a greeting to the proprietor, who was flicking through a magazine. There were one or two patrons around but they all avoided eye contact, although Molly could feel them stealing glances at her.

          Face red, she walked through the aisles, on the hunt for what she had come for. One or two items caught her eye, and she ended up with a bigger purchase than she had intended. Clutching her bag, she walked until she came to a drug store and made a few more purchases, and then took another taxi back to the hotel.

          Sherlock had been soundly asleep when she rose, dressed and slipped from the room. Poor love had quite worn himself out the night before. She dimpled at the memory, and then went pink when she caught the eye of the middle aged man in the Panama hat. Molly hadn’t seen him in days, but there he was, sitting at a table in the lobby, reading a newspaper. For some reason, she was certain he knew not only what was in her bag but exactly what she had been up to last night as well.

 

******

 

          “This has to stop,” Sherlock groused, after he had ascertained that Molly was nowhere in the room. Hungover from lack of sleep—and too much sex—he was still in good enough shape this time to do a little detecting. Swim suits had been rinsed and left to drip dry on the shower rail, rather that remain balled up on the floor; their clothes from the day previous were neatly folded on one of the chairs; her cosmetic case was unzipped as if she had used it since he zipped it up the day previous; her phone was gone and so was her purse and a pair of her shoes.

          “She must have gone to run an errand then,” he deduced, feeling a little of the worry leave him. “She could have left a note. Or woken me.” The thought of how she might have woken him caused a stirring of desire and Sherlock shook his head in bemusement; the human body truly was remarkable. After the previous night’s Olympic Games it should have been impossible for him to feel ready for more. His understanding was that a man’s libido decreased as he grew older, while a woman’s increased.

          “Obviously I’m superior to the rest of the male population in more ways than one,” Sherlock observed with a bit of swagger.

          Molly wouldn’t have taken her purse and phone to fetch breakfast from the hotel dining room, so she must have left the hotel grounds; he wondered when she would be back. He wondered what had caused her to leave. Momentary doubt flickered, and Sherlock wondered if she had regretted their night, or if embarrassment had sent her fleeing. But he dismissed that.

          The Molly of the night before had abandoned all pretenses at shyness and orchestrated several delightful surprises. He rather thought his favorite might have been the second time, when she pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him.

          That way he had been able to see her moving, enjoy the bounce of her breasts, and—before lust had all but obliterated his thinking process—he had observed that the angle increased the depth to which he could thrust, as well as apparently heightening Molly’s pleasure (he recalled three distinct orgasms on her part, as well as an apparent fourth which had piggybacked its way in on the third one). They had enjoyed it so much that all the shouting and carrying on had caused the neighbor to start banging on the shared wall. Sherlock also enjoyed seeing Molly in charge—although to a degree he had been uncomfortable ceding that control to her—and witnessing her confidence. It was quite sexy.

          “I should do something nice for her,” he realized, in a moment of tremendous personal growth.

          Not sure when she would return, he didn’t want to go far, so he decided that bringing her breakfast might do.

          Arranging the tray on the table by the window, the drapes of which he had opened so he might witness her return, Sherlock admired the flowers he had stolen from the courtyard. They were big, brilliantly colored and fragile, so they wouldn’t last long, but she should be back before then. Dropping them in the water glass he had fetched from the bathroom, he got a whiff of himself; sweat, sex and dried chlorine.  

          “Eugh,” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled and he dropped his sheet and went to run a shower. Bodily functions were all well and good in the heat of the moment, but his personal grooming demanded cleanliness now.

          He was just drying off when he heard the room door opening, and he nearly slipped and fell in his eagerness to exit the tub and greet Molly. _Don’t be too eager_ , a snide inner voice warned, _you’ll make a fool of yourself._

          Consequently, when he entered the room a few minutes later, he was reserved despite his nudity.

          Molly, wearing a very pretty purple flowered off the shoulder dress, her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, was putting some bags in the closet but she turned when she heard the bathroom door open. Her eager, happy face and the clearly displayed joy upon seeing him eased something in Sherlock’s chest, and he realized that it just might be possible for him to be a different Sherlock with Molly. She hadn’t once judged him or backed away; not when he was at his nastiest, not when he entangled her in his fake suicide plot, not in the very public scandal that had preceded it…not all this week or last night.

          _She likes me_ , he thought, stunned. Somehow it had never occurred to him that she liked him; the idea of him, perhaps, but not _him_. It wasn’t an idealized love that she felt, but an actual fondness and liking for the man that he was.

          Molly, unprepared, was lifted right off of her feet when Sherlock grabbed her and wrapped her in his arms. The kiss was hungry, but it wasn’t, she thought, a sexual hunger, instead Sherlock seemed to want to devour her, as if he could suck the air from her lungs and imbibe her spirit. When they finally parted, he still held her to him, and she had wrapped her legs around his waist for support. He was very clearly naked and very clearly aroused.

          “I want to have you against the wall,” he growled, sucking on her throat.

          “Okay,” Molly agreed hoarsely, already wet.

          “Yeah?” He asked for assurance even as he backed her against the wall and fumbled through her skirts to pull aside the leg of her knickers. Questing fingers found the slickness of her folds and he groaned; parting her as he gently slid inside. Suddenly he froze, “Shit. _Shit_. I forgot a condom.”

          Molly whimpered, but released her legs and let him lower her feet to the ground. “Don’t. Move.” Sherlock ordered tersely. In record time he had ripped open a packet and rolled the condom on, and then he crossed the room, erect penis cutting a swathe in the air in front of him. Molly nearly passed out from lust.

          He hoisted her back in the air, slammed her against the wall, gritted out an apology and thrust inside her. It wasn’t gentle this time, or slow or tender; fiercely he pounded her into the wall, gripping her arms, her arse, biting her ear. Molly loved it; she was panting and calling his name as he rocked his hips, clawing at his back. Sherlock came, and a tiny sensible part of him was afraid he was going to overflow the condom, although surely it was impossible for anyone to come that much, outside of the porn he had found on John’s computer. It was like a garden hose in those productions.

          Shaking and sweating, Sherlock dropped his head to Molly’s shoulder and shuddered. He was winded and his knees were loose, wobbling a bit, he stepped away from the wall, crossed the room and lowered her to the bed. Sprawling boneless, Molly couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock looked closely and thought she might have been a bit cross-eyed. “Did you come?”

          “No,” Molly said dreamily, as if it didn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter though.”

          She changed her tune when he tugged down her knickers, parted her legs and set about pleasing his lover. The previous night, he had operated with curiosity, scientific application and a need to dominate anything he applied himself to. There had been passion, but more than that he had wanted to prove he was as good at cunnilingus as he was at anything else.

          Today he discovered the difference when you wanted to please someone else more than you wanted to please yourself. Sherlock abandoned any previous restraint and the faint hint of distaste he had experienced before, and sucked her into his mouth, laving her clitoris with his tongue, nibbling and licking as his fingers stroked and twisted inside her. Within seconds Molly screamed his name and shook so hard he was afraid he might have triggered a seizure.

          Curious to see if he could use his mouth and hands to make her orgasm closely together the way she had while riding him the night before, he dipped his head back between her legs and went for the gold. The second time took longer, but her orgasm lasted longer, and he realized he could increase the length of time she came if he continued to stroke her as she shivered around his fingers. “Sherlock,” Molly whimpered, fingers involuntarily flexing in his hair, which she had been gripping and pulling rather painfully--not that he was going to point it out at this exact moment--, “are you trying to kill me?”

          Without answering her, and without waiting for her slick channel to stop clenching and releasing his fingers, Sherlock sucked on her clitoris as one would a hard candy, and dared to use a graze of his teeth. She yelped and pulled him closer, unabashedly grinding her sex against his face. He smiled and withdrew the fingers he had inside her, changed his angle so that one finger was stroking her g-spot while his thumb pressed and circled her swollen clitoris. The other hand gripped her arse cheek as he made his way toward something she might not be wholly on board with.

          Daring to lightly press his fingers against the tight pucker of her arsehole, Sherlock held his breath, and then grinned in pleased triumph when Molly arched into him. Assaulting her trigger points simultaneously, he watched her face as she strove to orgasm; face clenching desperately as she clawed at the covers. Sherlock lowered his head and licked her clit, then blew a cool stream of air over it, before scissoring the sensitive flesh between his thumb and tongue. Molly’s body clenched, then relaxed and in that moment his finger slipped into her bum and he hooked his finger, pressed and watched her fall apart. Sobbing, she came so hard that she achieved what he understood to be something of a sexual white whale as far as women were concerned.

          He stayed on his knees to observe every fascinating moment, stroking her thighs lightly as she came down from her release. When she had stopped shivering, he crawled up the bed and lay beside her, watching her face. Molly’s eyes remained tightly shut and after a moment he asked in disbelief if she were embarrassed.  
          “Yes!” Molly squeaked, hands flying to cover her hot face. “I—I…you—you made me…”

          “Ejaculate, yes.” Sherlock’s chest swelled, he was indeed an awesome lover. “It was fascinating to watch.” After a minute, when she refused to lower her hands, he felt a little uncertainty…had he gone too far?

          “Molly?”

          “Please don’t look at me, I’m so embarrassed.”

          “Why?”

          “You were right there, watching and touching…”

          “Well yes,” Sherlock said reasonably, “I had to be. It was magnificent. You were magnificent.”

          She peeped at him, and he smiled in what he hoped was a soothing manner, and not what John called his serial killer smile. It must have been the correct expression, because she lowered her hands and bit at her thumb while watching him with big eyes. “You’re not disgusted with me?”

          People were so confusing. Sherlock was mystified, “I made you come like that, why would I be disgusted?”

          “I’ve never done that before,” Molly confessed.

          A smug smile spread across Sherlock’s face, and she burst out laughing, embarrassment forgotten, “If you had on clothes you’d be bursting your buttons right now.”

          “I confess I am quite pleased with myself. Not bad for a novice.”

          Slinging a leg over his hips, Molly curled up against him and ran her fingers through his sweaty hair, “I think you’ve achieved master status,” she breathed in his ear, nipping the lobe.

          “I’m the master,” he gloated, smirking. Flipping her on her back, he pinned her hands over her head and mock scowled at her, “Call me master.”

          “Ohhh, yes, you’re going to like my surprise,” Molly laughed, a laugh he had never heard from her before, rich, throaty and confident. She sounded a bit wicked and he was enthralled.

          Despite all his questions and deductions (guesses) she refused to tell him what it was, and when he tried to go check the bags in the closet she leapt on his back and they ended up rolling on the floor, laughing. She distracted him nicely, and he finally abandoned it with semi-good grace and allowed her the license to surprise him at a later time. She did show him the Epsom salts she had purchased that morning and they took a bath together, which of course ended up with cries echoing around the tiled bathroom and copious amounts of soapy water sloshing over onto the floor.

          “Oooh,” Molly, toweling off, winced and cupped her tender bits in her hand soothingly, “I need a break.”

          Sherlock, who had been shaving, met her eyes in the mirror, “I’m sorry Molly—“

          She stepped up behind him, looped her arms around his waist and kissed his spine, a sensation which tickled. “Love, it’s alright, I’ll recover. And besides, it was totally worth it.” Unable to look over his shoulder, she peeped around him and smiled at his reflection, “Utterly.”

          Since remaining in the room, they agreed, would only lead to further temptation, they dressed and ventured out for a late lunch. “I did get breakfast,” Sherlock explained, “but you distracted me.”

          “I saw,” Molly smiled, “I liked the flowers.” She touched the pink hibiscus she had tucked in her bun and looped her arm through his, “Where shall we eat? I’m starving!”

          So was he, Sherlock realized in surprise. Sex certainly did burn up energy.

          After their lunch, Molly asked what he would like to do, and because he knew it would please her, and also because he was exhausted and a bit sore, he proposed they go on a carriage tour of the Quarter. They spent a pleasant half hour riding in the slow horse-drawn carriage, as their guide pointed out historic buildings, noteworthy sites and regaled them with tales of the famous and infamous residents of New Orleans.

          “Where to next?” She asked, and because he could tell she really meant it, they went to the Lalaurie Mansion, site of the infamous slave torture and murders in the 1800s; and after they intended on a walk through Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1, but they learned that it was kept locked due to vandalism, and they wandered the neighborhood until a tour showed up and they could join. _You can’t take a woman to a murder house and a cemetery, Sherlock,_ he heard John in his head, _that’s not how dates work._

Looking at Molly’s absorbed face, he knew John was wrong. Some women enjoyed this type of thing as well. _My woman_ , he thought, before he froze. No, no, no absolutely not. This was just a vacation from real life, a holiday that would end and they would go their separate ways and he might not ever see her again. If he got too involved emotionally, he could be distracted, and distracted could get him killed.

          “I know we had a late lunch, but I think I walked it all off,” Molly confessed, when the tour ended. “How about dinner?”

          “I’m not hungry, but let’s get you something to eat.” They walked through the gathering dusk to the streetcar line and go off on Esplanade, and walked to a place on Frenchman Street that Molly had heard about and wanted to try. Sherlock was grateful he wasn’t hungry, as the name, Dat Dog, sounded most unappetizing. Molly seemed to enjoy it however, downing a crawfish sausage hot dog with bacon, Creole mustard and mother-in-law slaw. The restaurant’s slogan was _Put a Smile On Your Face_ , and it seemed to have worked. Molly was beaming and chattering away, and Sherlock allowed himself to be swayed by her charm.

          When she finished she went to use the Ladies, and he took out his phone. Molly popped up behind him and surprised him, “What are you doing?”

          “Emailing the Lalaurie Museum, several facts are wrong in their presentation.” He caught her biting back a smile but she didn’t say anything. “What? If you were wrong, wouldn’t you want to know it so you could correct your behaviour?”

          “Just be nice,” she advised, patting his arm. He rolled his eyes and she rolled hers back.

          “It was a lovely day, Sherlock, thank you,” Molly said hours later, as they lay in bed. “I’m going to sleep like a rock tonight.” She yawned and stretched, then snuggled into her pillow. “I can tell you’re restless though…you don’t have to stay if you want to escape.”

          Startled, he looked at her, but she smiled sleepily, not seeming to mean anything by it, and he agreed that he wasn’t sleepy. Leaving her to sleep in peace, he dressed and slipped out of the room.

 

******

 

          It had been, she reflected on her last night before she had to return to London, quite possibly the most perfect holiday anyone could ask for. Together she and Sherlock had explored the city, taken tours, eaten amazing foods, drank too much, amazingly he even accompanied her on a ghost tour, although it was all he could do to restrain himself from ripping the over-the-top guide apart. She had shopped, they had danced…made love.

          Once she was feeling recovered, she had surprised him with the flavored lubes and body powders, the handcuffs and the silk restraints she had bought. As she suspected, he quite liked tying her up and driving her mad, but it had taken some convincing to get him to submit to her doing the same. In the end he had actually begged her for mercy and every time she thought about it she flushed with mingled pride, embarrassment and lust.

          The only downside was that now it was all ending and she was afraid for him, afraid for the future and afraid she would cry and isolate him with her messy emotions. The past two weeks had taxed what she long thought would be Sherlock Holmes’ limits, and yet with few exceptions he had appeared to enjoy himself. The later it got the quieter they both became, and she wondered what he was thinking. Not being an idiot, she didn’t ask.

          Not wanting to hear him tell her lies or platitudes, Molly willed him not to bring up their imminent parting. She also hoped he wouldn’t be too tender, or she might lose her self-control and cry.

          As if he had read her mind—it was Sherlock—he wasn’t too lover-like, instead fucking her in the shower, so hard that she passed out momentarily. Before she hardly had time to recover, he took her, dripping all over the place, to the bed, tossed her on and proceeded to shag her senseless. Long after midnight they drifted to sleep, and blessedly Molly’s dreams were sweet.

          Waking with a smile, she rolled over, reaching for him before she had even opened her eyes. Feeling only the cool chill of unoccupied sheets, and sensing that she was alone in the room, for a long time she lay with her eyes closed and pretended he was out fetching breakfast.

          Unable to lie to herself any longer, Molly opened her eyes and instantly saw that all sign of him had been erased from the room. Feeling abandoned, she pinched her thigh hard, unwilling to cry. “You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine,” she whispered over and over, blinking fiercely. Turning on the bedside lamp, she went to rise from the bed but stopped when she saw a small box and a folded note next to her mobile.

          Hands shaking, she picked them up and debated which to open first, but finally curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the box. It was the poison ring she had admired at the French Market; somehow, Sherlock had known and he went back for it. Clutching it in her palm, she unfolded the note and read it, hardly able to breathe.

_Molly,_

_If I were a better man, I would never have initiated intimacy with you._

 

          Hot tears spilled out of Molly’s eyes and she had to blink hard to clear her vision. She very nearly didn’t read further, but she wiped her eyes on the sheet and continued.

 

_However, as you know, I am not a very good man, and thus I did initiate intimacy with you. And whatever the emotional cost will be to me—and I suspect it will be greater than I anticipate—I have no regrets._

 

          She sobbed, but it was a happy sound, and she read the rest of the letter with a growing smile and a happy heart.

 

_If my skill at reading people is correct in this instance, you too are pleased rather than apprehensive about the future. I’m writing this letter to let you know that, if you wish to “wait” for me, that I will return to you when I am able. Unfortunately I cannot promise that I will return, because you are aware of the vast giant which I have been bedeviling, but I will do my best. Since I escaped death once, I dare say we can lay odds that eventually I will return to London and to you._

_Sherlock_

_P.S. You don’t need Voodoo._


	4. The Holiday is Over, Brother Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Play time is over: Sherlock has returned to London, only to find more than one thing has changed in his absence. Who said homecoming would be sweet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how angsty this chapter turned out, but bear with me! Also, I wrote this in a hurry and I think my tenses are all over the place. Mea culpa.

**The Holiday is Over, Brother Dear**

_London, England, U.K._

_One Year Later…_

          Once more back in his Belstaff, back in his own persona, in his City, Sherlock struts out of Mycroft’s office and thrusts his hands into his coat pockets. Never mind what his brother had to say on the matter, John won’t have moved on; _not everyone moves on_ , he reflected bitterly. The adoring face of Molly Hooper tries to enter his mind but he shoves her back inside and shuts the door of her vault in his mind palace; somehow, the damn thing keeps unlocking itself.

          Feeling a sharp corner of paper in his left hand pocket, he pulls it out in curiosity, only to be stunned by what he sees. Never mind how it got here, when he thought it destroyed in Serbia—no doubt it was the work of Mycroft—he can’t look at it now. For a moment his fingers curl as if he will crumple it in his fist, but at the last moment they relax and he smooths the worn paper and slides it back in his pocket.

          For the past year he has been someone else, a series of someone elses to be precise, and it worked, it was what he had to do to succeed in the impossible task he had set himself. A task which he had completed stupendously, and for which he expected forthcoming apologies from the press, speculation from same on his two year gap, and possibly accolades and offers of knighthood from the Crown. Not that he cared about any of that, but Mummy would be pleased.

          People at home might have grieved and mourned and moved on with their lives, but he had had to face his challenges without contacting any of them. Aside from one or two encounters with Althea or Mycroft while he was abroad, he hadn’t seen any of them in two years. _Except for Molly._

          Shoving her aside brutally, Sherlock surged out of the lift and swung out of the lobby, walking at double speed. He had things to do, people to see and there was no time to waste; the game was on!

 

******

 

          Several hours, a great deal of confusion, a fake mustache and one bloody nose later, Sherlock was moving more slowly. Although he wasn’t self-aware enough to realize it, his time away had changed him; before he had denied all need of people, preferring solitude. A few had wormed their way in: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John. Being forced to fake his suicide and go underground had shown him that he might not want to be quite so all alone. Less than two weeks in New Orleans had revealed to him that he needed at least one person quite desperately, and despite his best efforts, thoughts of Molly had snuck in, slipping through his formidable defenses with ease.

          Sherlock had let her in and found a new strength in closeness with another person.

          For a time.

          Now he was back, and while he might have changed, he was determined not to show it. If he had exercised a bit more tact, John might not have punched him (more than once), and even now they might be reconciling. Instead, John had driven off in a sulk, although the mysterious Mary had promised she would bring him ‘round. Sherlock found he didn’t like the idea of anyone having so much control over his friend. That was his job.

          With some surprise, he realized that his wanderings had taken him to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and he made a wry face. Apparently the vault door had opened again. After a momentary hesitation, he pulled out the paper from his left hand coat pocket and studied it in the light from the streetlamps; it had gotten a bit creased in his thrashing about on the ground with John, and he smoothed it flat. It had been a mistake to keep it, it only made him weak. Hence his feet’s apparent decision to move without his permission.

          The women’s locker room at St. Bart’s was on the third floor, and he reached it with ease, walking in to the room, he heard the screech of a metal door just as he rounded the corner and saw Molly Hooper from the back. Her brown eyes flew up to meet his in the small mirror on the inside of her locker door, and he was only aware he was smiling when an answering smile spread slowly across her face. After a long, fraught moment, she turns but he has already disappeared by the time she makes it to the door.

          In the hallway, having ducked into a recessed doorway, he leans his head back against the wall and waits until he hears the squeak of the locker room door hinges and the soft shuffle of the door swinging slowly closed. After a few minutes he pushes away from the wall and strides down the corridor. It is definitely time to leave.

 

******

 

          At least Lestrade had been pleased to see him. Sherlock was still somewhat disconcerted at being dragged into a fierce hug by the man, but it was…nice…to be missed. Mrs. Hudson had been enthusiastic too, once she got over her screaming.

          The flat was in good order, all his furniture still in place, and although some of his personal belongings had been boxed up, most of them were still where they belonged, as if whoever had started the job had given up before they finished. Despite his weariness, and the aching of his flogged back and bruised arms and ribs, he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping, so Sherlock begins dragging things out and putting them back in their rightful place. He sat up half the night, reorganizing his books, and studying old case notes for experiments. When he came across a reference to Molly’s contribution in one of them, he slapped it shut and shelved it. Abandoning the books, he wandered restlessly through the flat, wishing he had a cigarette.

          There was an old, half-crushed, completely stale packet of Marlborough Reds in his old Turkish slipper, he discovered, but even he wasn’t desperate enough for that. If his back didn’t stop distracting him with pain, he might have to go down stairs and steal one of Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers. Dropping into his old chair, he sniffed the old aroma of tobacco trapped in the fibers of the slipper, detecting hints of dust, herbs, perfume, furniture polish, and a dozen other aromas. He studies the slipper—which he is already intimately familiar with—to avoid studying the paper in his dressing gown pocket.

          It’s perfectly ridiculous for a grown man to be walking around with it as if it were some sort of talisman. He ought to throw it out. In fact, he had tried, twice; but both times he fetched it from the bin. It didn’t feel right on the mantel, or stuck to the fridge. Sherlock doesn’t have any idea what to do with it or with the memories associated with it.

          Giving in to weakness, he pulls out the paper, which is a photo, although one that has clearly been through a lot of abuse. He doesn’t need his memory palace to reconstruct a minute of his time in New Orleans; all he has to do is close his eyes, or look at this photograph.

          It was in Jackson Square, when he was taking photographs of Molly, that he had captured it; while she was distracted he had pulled out his mobile and snapped a picture of her licking ice cream off her arm. Her hair is windblown, her face absorbed, and she is partly turned from the camera as she tries to capture the melting ice cream running down her arm, the cone tilting dangerously in her hand.

          It was stupid to take it, even more stupid to print it out and keep it. He had carried the damn thing with him ever since, despite a number of vigorous lectures he issued to himself on all the reasons for disposing of it. It was clearly stupid, especially now.

          Ages back, when he was trying to unravel the mystery of The Woman, Molly had caught him x-raying her mobile and said something about people doing silly things and at the time he had excluded himself from that category. Now he was frustratingly aware that he was acting like any ordinary person, carrying around a photograph and mooning over a woman who had moved on.

         

******

 

          “Yeah,” Molly told Greg, “I’ve moved on!” She gives him a happy, goony smile and sips her champagne, gritting her teeth. This bloody evening wasn’t her idea. She’d have much rather come alone, but noooo…

          Sucking up her grumpy attitude, Molly smiles as Greg asks how they met, “We met through friends…mmhmm, yeah, he’s got a dog…we go to the pubs.”

          “So you’re engaged?” Greg is looking at Tom uneasily, and Molly hurries to tell him, “Oh yes, he got me a ring.” She shows off the small diamond ring, “I’ve met his mum and dad and everything.” By now she has told the same facts so many times she feels she is reciting the same lines over and over, for a part she no longer wants to play.

          Mrs. Hudson has prepared a tray of nibbles. For no reason at all, Molly thinks of the day she spent with Sherlock; she had started out full of trembling hope, thinking he might be going to ask her to dinner, as if there had been no pause since she last saw him in New Orleans. Instead he had wanted her to accompany him for the day, solving crimes, consulting with Lestrade…it had been…strange. Although she had asked him about his reasons, hoping he might drop the formal attitude which had kept a gulf of strangeness between them for most of the day, he had merely told her it was to tell her thank you for all she had done. When he suddenly brought up Moriarity, pointing out that he had underestimated her, claiming that she “mattered most of all” Molly had gotten that old flutter in her chest.

          All for nothing. He offered her chips, told her a pack of lies, then wished her happiness in her engagement and stiffly kissed her cheek as if he had never made love to her, never stolen her heart.

          Watching him walk away from her in the darkening gloaming, the silent snow falling around his solitary figure, she had known that there was no going back for them. What might have been was gone.

          The others were talking, discussing wedding plans, admiring Mary’s ring. Molly sat down in the same chair she had occupied during the client interviews with Sherlock. Looking at Mary on the couch, clearly happy and in love, she is glad the focus of attention is off her. All she can think about now is the long, meaningful look Sherlock had given her when Sheila Harrison had been tearfully telling them of her pen pal, who had disappeared, “You thought he was your true love,” Sherlock had said sympathetically, and then looked across the room at Molly. Her heart had been racing, and she wondered, if, when they were alone he would finally confront her about the year of silence. Instead he had made his incredible accusation against Sheila’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, who had been posing as her pen pal.

          Finally, talk is winding down, and they can make their escape; Molly all but ran down the stairs, eager to be away. “See,” Tom said, “that wasn’t so bad.” He caught up with her and took her arm, slowing her to a walk. “I told you, you were worried for nothing.”

          She gave him a distracted smile, irritated with his avuncular fussing. Thank God she can go home after this and be alone with her thoughts.

 

******

 

          There is definitely something wrong. The wedding speech has completely gotten away from Sherlock for one thing. Molly had been worried about it, but everyone kept laughing off her concerns. Public speaking in front of a room full of people, on a day devoted to love and commitment? And they hadn’t expected Sherlock to put his foot stupendously in his mouth at least once? But it was more than that. Molly has the uneasy feeling he is buying time.

          More than once she meets his eyes and she can see his worry, there is something going on, his amazing brain is working in the background, as he babbles, insulting all and sundry, rambling about John’s jumpers.

          Tom, opening his big fat stupid mouth, gets a fork to the hand. Molly refuses to feel bad, instead experiencing a sharp rush of delight. She’s been longing to do that for months. She smiles sweetly at Greg, who looks startled, and is in her turn startled by Mrs. Hudson, who—while a bit worse for drink—has none the less winked at her knowingly. Molly curls an apologetic hand around Tom’s and pretends not to notice when he sulks.

          A few hours later, disaster averted, Major Sholto on his way to the A&E, would be murdered disguised as a photographer handcuffed and led away, Sherlock is playing his violin for a hushed room. John and Mary circle the floor slowly, their happy faces limned by the glow of candles scattered around the room. Molly is happy that their day hasn’t been ruined. Mary Morstan Watson may be the perfect woman for John, as the day’s calamaties seem hardly to have phased her. Molly would be a nervous wreck by now, if this were her wedding day.

          The waltz ends and as the deejay starts playing an upbeat song, Sherlock encourages everyone onto the dance floor, and Molly loses sight of him as he approaches the happy couple. Tom, with poor grace, has forgiven her, and they are dancing with Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Molly looks up in time to see Sherlock sweep the room with a long, considering glance, before he turns away and walks from the crowd, alone. Biting her lip, Molly starts after him, only to have her wrist caught.

          Looking back, she sees that Tom has snagged her arm and is giving her a reproving look. Flushing, Molly turns back and dances.

 

******

 

          Every single damn thing that has gone wrong builds up in Molly as she approaches Sherlock, who is leaning on a lab table, looking sulky and bored. He is high, his pupils dilated, his clothes and self both disgusting, but he still manages to look as if they are all beneath them, and he is just humoring them. Unleashing more than a year’s worth of pent-up rage, only some of it directed at him, and the slimy cold feeling of fear engendered by the presence of drugs in his system this morning, Molly cracks her hand across his face once, twice. Hand stinging, she switches arms and clocks him a good one a third time.

          There is a stunned silence in the room, as with a shaking voice, Molly Hooper takes Sherlock Holmes to task. “Say you’re sorry,” she commands in a voice unlike any they have heard from her before. “Sorry your engagements over,” he responds in a hoarse, but flippant voice, “though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”

          Molly looks into his eyes and despite the level of drugs in his system, she can see he remembers everything, and he is furious. An answering anger rises in her, _how dare he?_ “Stop it,” she demands in a voice which wants to shake, “Just stop it.” Emotions too close to the surface, she is grateful when John sticks his nose in, berating Sherlock for not coming to him. The ridiculous, and frankly quite off-putting Bill Wiggins, whose exact status Molly is uninformed of (but she can make her guesses) jumps into the conversation, and she is forgotten. Before long the lab has cleared out and she is alone. Slumping onto a stool, she stares at her bare hands and remembers.


	5. We Meet Every Friday for Fish and Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Mycroft Holmes tormenting Molly?  
> Series/Season Four spoilers.

         There was probably never, Molly thought uneasily, going to come a time when a meeting with Mycroft Holmes wasn’t unsettling. She looked around the dingy chip shop and then cast a speculative glance at the door to the loo. Her nerves were causing her bladder to feel as if it needed emptying, but the idea of using the no doubt questionable toilet was unthinkable. _He’d better hurry up_ , she thought rebelliously, _or else I’m leaving_.

          It was a thought without serious intent behind it. Molly was more than a little terrified of Sherlock’s older brother.

          She pulled her hands out of the sleeves of her jumper and wrapped them around her mug of tea; it was so strong it would probably dissolve the plastic spoon if she tried stirring in some sugar, but she didn’t have any intention of actually drinking it. No telling how clean the mug was. But the warmth was comforting. She kept thinking of the cold way Sherlock had looked at her in the lab, and then how rage had transmuted his indifference into a burning look which seared straight through to her heart.

          Mycroft was late. He liked to keep her waiting. She knew he was doing it on purpose. Keeping her off-balance was part of his style. Sometimes he would show up early to their meeting place and she would arrive on time to find him waiting impatiently, as if she had been tardy. It was like dating a headmaster with control issues. The head games were becoming too much. Molly wanted out.

          Finally he arrived, seeming to Apparate at her side, and Molly jumped. “Crikey, you startled me!” She pressed her hand to her heart as he slid into the seat opposite her. He looked so out of place, in his Gieves & Hawkes suit, hand-made shoes and the topcoat that cost more than she made in a month. She wondered, as she always did, what the comatose pregnant teen behind the counter thought about them; probably nothing, she seemed hardly aware of her surroundings. It was, no doubt, why Mycroft chose the place.

          “You knew I was coming,” he said smoothly, plucking a paper serviette from the dispenser and wiping the table top before he folded his hands and placed them on the table. “How could I possibly surprise you?”

          Molly didn’t answer. It was one of her small, petty acts of rebellion, to ignore him sometimes.

          “You requested this meeting,” Mycroft pointed out impatiently, when she remained silent. “I’m a busy man, Ms. Hooper.”

          “I want out.” Molly blurted the words, despite the speech she had been preparing in her head. A tremendous sense of relief washed over her, and her shoulders straightened.

          “Our agreement—“

          “Please, you don’t have to remind me.” Molly couldn’t meet his eyes; every time she thought about their arrangement she went hot and cold with shame. “Look…Sherlock’s back now…he’s where we can keep an eye on him, so—”

          “And he’s using again,” Mycroft interrupted her, “His focus needs to remain on his work: if he gets bored he gets reckless.” The unspoken words, that he would be bored by her, burrowed into Molly’s shaky self-esteem.

          “I won’t tell him why I didn’t wait—“ not that she could, since it was all manufactured by Mycroft anyway, and she hadn’t a clue why it had to be done—“but can’t I at least tell him that Tom—“

          “If you tell him one you tell him the other,” Mycroft was derisive. “Ms. Hooper, I know that you want my brother to remain safe, and you certainly don’t want certain facts to come to light…” He trailed off delicately and then gave her a tight, complacent smile when she nodded. “Just so.” Without bidding her farewell, he rose, pushed in his chair with a screech, and departed.

          “”nything else?” The inquiry startled Molly, and she looked blankly at the teen, who had come out from behind the counter and looking at Molly’s untouched tea, which had gone stone cold. She had been sitting in a funk for an untold amount of time. “No, thank you,” Molly said, pulling out a few quid to leave as a tip. For some reason, she felt absurdly guilty that they used this place as a meeting point for their illicit transactions. She always left a generous tip for her tea which she never drank.

          Pushing out into the night, Molly shivered, from more than cold. She was stuck in a tangle of lies, and meanwhile the man she loved was trying his best to kill himself.

 

******

 

          “He’s alright,” Molly whispered to herself, as she scurried down the corridor, “He’s alright, he’s going to recover, the doctors all said so.” It was late, visiting hours were almost over, and she wanted to see him just once.

          Disappointment warred with relief when Molly tentatively pushed open the door to his room; a few lights were on in the room, but it was still and mostly dark, only the soft sound of Sherlock’s drugged breathing disturbed the silence. He was alone, and asleep. Stealing into the room, Molly sat down in the chair which was pulled up close to the bed and peered at him.

          He was paler than normal, and his curls were matted to his head with sweat, as if he had battled a fever. Touching his brow, she was relieved to find his skin cool. Her touch turned tender, and Molly stroked his forehead, ran her fingers through his hair and very carefully leaned over the bed on tip toe to kiss the bridge of his nose, which wrinkled under her lips. An unintelligible murmur slipped out of his parted lips, but he didn’t wake.

          Taking his dry hand in hers, Molly sat in the chair and cried quietly. It was absurd, he had come through surgery, he had regained consciousness, and the doctors were confident of his complete recovery. But he had nearly _died_ —in fact, he had died on the operating table and it was nothing short of a miracle that he came back—someone had shot him and he could have died and she never would have been able to tell him—

          “Janine?”

          Sherlock’s raspy voice asking after his erstwhile fiancée shook Molly, and she whispered, “No…”

          “Mary?” He sounded a little more alert.

          “It’s Molly.”

          He was silent for a long time, and she thought he might have gone to sleep. She sniffled furtively, and he asked, “Are you crying?”

          “No.”

          “Liar.” To her ear his voice sounds neither angry  nor accusatory. His hand flexes around hers, “I saw you.”

          “Pardon?”

          “When I died, I saw you.” He sounds a little amused, “You slapped me.”

          In the darkness, Molly’s face burns, and she remembers how angry she had been that day in the lab, how betrayed and scared and helpless she felt. Now he will forever remember her as angry and abusive. “I’m sorry—“

          “Think nothing of it,” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbles his chest, sounding reassuringly familiar, normal, “You helped me survive. You saved me, Molly Hooper. Again.”

          She can’t say anything, she is crying again, trying desperately to remain silent. He doesn’t need her grief, and he doesn’t want her love, and there isn’t anything she can do for him. “No problem,” she finally manages to get out. Sherlock doesn’t respond, and before long he is asleep again, and she waits in the dark until the night nurse comes to tell her visiting hours are over.

 

******

 

          “Mycroft, for God’s sake, you can go with me if you really believe I’m going to bolt. I just want to tell her goodbye.”

          “ _No_. It’s enough that I’m allowing the Watsons to accompany us to the airfield tomorrow, I’m not letting you run all over London so you can have a tearful parting with your lover.”

          “I owe her an explanation for why I’m disappearing; she saved my life three times.”

          “Three? I would have thought two.”

          “Moriarity; when I was shot; and she was useful when I escaped from the hospital.”

          “How, pray tell, did Ms. Hooper save you from the gunshot wound?”

          “Invaluable forensic and medical knowledge, applied at the right time.”

          “Ah, she was in your _mind palace_ , I see.”

          “Don’t take that tone with me. She was in the autopsy room.”

          “I would have rather thought the bedroom.”

          “I hate you.”

          “Likewise.”

 

******

 

          _He’s going to die. One of these days, at this rate, he will die and I’ll have to live without him. His behavior is becoming more and more reckless, even by Sherlock’s standards._

          Hugging herself for comfort, Molly wished that Toby were still alive, for a cat he had been very fond of cuddling. But she had had to have him put down a few days before; he had escaped the flat and run out into traffic. Every time she thought of his dear, furry face, tears pricked her eyes.

          Rosie Watson would have been the perfect distraction; Molly adored her god-daughter and had been happy to pitch in and care for her when John had been so devastated by Mary’s death. But following the explosion at 221B the day prior, Mycroft’s scary PA had fetched Rosie so she could be taken someplace safe. No one told Molly anything, but she was sick with worry. She’d tried to take her mind off her worries by visiting Mrs. Hudson in the hospital.

          Luckily, the blast had been centered in the main room of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson had been downstairs, at the back of the house, when the explosion occurred. The concussion had caused all the windows to shatter, and she had been cut by flying glass, and been badly bruised when a load of boxes and half-empty paint cans had fallen on her in the closet where she had gone to put away the vacuum cleaner. Considering what might have been, she was incredibly lucky.

          The hospital had kept her overnight, since her blood pressure was fluctuating, but she was due out today. She’d seemed as plucky as ever, and told Molly she planned on going to stay with her married sister, in Plymouth. “We don’t see eye to eye on anything, but she’s family and she’ll give me a bed until I can return to Baker Street—if for no other reason than to lord it over me.”

          Molly found Mrs. Hudson’s confidence that come what may, there would be a Baker Street to go back to, somewhat comforting. The dear lady knew no more than she did, however, about just what it was that had started it all in the first place.

          Now she was back home, alone, torn by worry, with nothing to distract her. Whatever it was that was going on, it had followed a wild week. Molly had been summoned across town to confirm for John Watson that Sherlock was high—again—while Sherlock was simultaneously in the news for accusing billionaire and philanthropist, Culverton Smith of being a serial killer. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, it had turned out that he was right. But hardly had anyone had time to breathe before the next disaster was upon them.

          Molly actually felt as if Sherlock had gotten more thoughtless with his own well-being since his return, rather than more mindful of it. It was if he didn’t care what became of him. The idea made her shiver.

          “A cup of tea, that’s what I need,” Molly decided. She needed the comfort of something familiar to still her restless nerves. Rising, she went into the kitchen, and pulled a lemon out of the fruit bowl, setting it on the cutting board. She needed to eat, even if she wasn’t hungry; she wasn’t entirely certain when her last meal had been. It would have to be toast, she can’t manage more than a mouthful of food at a time nowadays. Turning on the kettle, she crossed the kitchen to reach in the cabinet next to the sink, where she kept her tins of tea. There was some Darjeeling in there somewhere…

          It hit her without warning, the pain. She had been reaching for the tea, trying to find the right one, when she knocked over the bag of coffee. Funny how simple things can gut you.

          Back when Molly had been hopeful about the future, back when she was leaving New Orleans and wanted something to keep to share with Sherlock one day, something that would remind them of their magical holiday, she had impulsively bought a bag of Community coffee with Chicory. She had envisioned him returning to London triumphantly, a tender (and passionate) reunion, and then the two of them sharing coffee the next morning.

          After a while it was easier not to open her cupboard and see it sitting there, mocking her, yet she could not bear to throw it away and admit that there was no hope. She pushed it to the back and mostly forgot it was there.

          A hard tremor shook her slender body, and she gripped the edge of the counter, breathing hard. Surely it was her imagination, but she could smell the coffee…smell the rich, green of the flowering plants in the courtyard, the crisp linen of the bedsheets, the musky smell of Sherlock’s body, curled around hers…

          Hearing the ring of her mobile, she pulled herself together, straightening up, not bothering to wipe the tears from her face, and turned to slice the lemon. Glancing at her phone she saw his name. _No_.

            _Answer it_ , her heart urged, _he might need you_. She took a jar of marmalade from the cabinet and glanced at her phone. Her phone went silent then started its urgent buzzing again. Sighing, she dropped her lemon and wiped her hands on a tea towel, reaching for her phone. No doubt he needed her to give him access to the lab, or wanted her to do a bit of freelance forensic work for him. She couldn’t have guessed what he was asking her for…

          Whatever she had expected, and to be honest, she was past expecting much, Molly hadn’t thought that he would torment her this way. He knew, he knew, _he knew_ how she felt, how she had always felt, why would he do this to her? Claiming it was for an experiment was cruel.

 Molly’s head reared back and she held her phone in a trembling hand, on the verge of hanging up, “I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

          His voice is too soothing, “No, I know you’re not an experiment. You’re my friend. We’re friends. But…please. Just…say those words for me.”  
“Please don’t do this. Just ... just ... don’t do it.” If he keeps on with this torment she won’t be able to hold herself together.  
          She can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, but it’s Sherlock, and she knows him, so she can also tell he’s worried, and dimly she begins to be worried about what it going on. “It’s  _very_  important. I can’t say why, but I promise you it is.”  
          Is he high? “I can’t say that. I can’t ... I can’t say that to you.” _Please, please Sherlock, don’t make me say it out loud.  
_           His voice is coaxing, “Of  _course_  you can.  _Why_  can’t you?”  
          “You  _know_  why.”  
          Unbelievably, he actually sounds puzzled, as if he can’t make out why she is being difficult. “No, I  _don’t_  know why.”  
Sighing heavily, Molly sniffles, wipes her nose with her hand, _“_ Of course you do.”  
_“Please, just say it.”_

 _“_ I can’t. Not to you.”  
          When he asks her why, Molly’s voice breaks, “Because…because it’s true.” At the end of the sentence her voice has gone almost silent. “Because ... it’s ...” despite her deep breath, she starts crying, heart breaking, “... true, Sherlock.” Whispering, “It’s  _always_  been true.”  
Whatever she expected him to say in return, it didn’t involve him almost snapping back at her, _“_ Well, if it’s true, just say it anyway.”  
_“_ You bastard.”  
          His no nonsense tone states clearly that her anger is meaningless to him, “Say it anyway.”  
_I want it,_ Molly thinks _, just once I want to hear him say it. “You_  say it. Go on. You say it first.”  
          “What?” His confusion is clear, and she almost smiles, but she has moved past caring. She commands him again to say it. And then softly she urges, “Say it like you mean it.”  
His voice, slow and hesitant in her ear, breaks her heart. _“_ I-I ...I love you.” More softly still, as if he is afraid someone will hear, or as if he cannot believe he is saying it, “I love you.”  
She sways, smiling to herself, only to hear his worried voice prompting her, _“_ Molly?” As she stands, cradling her phone, reliving every moment of their time in New Orleans, Sherlock’s voice petitions her again, sounding edgy, “Molly,  _please_.”  
Summoning her courage on a deep breath, Molly stares at her phone, as if she is looking at him face to face, and finally says the words out loud after seven years of being in love with Sherlock Holmes. “I love you.”

          His shaky exhalation is her only reply, then the call is dropped and she falls to the floor and sobs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love Mycroft, but for the purposes of this story he is (or will at at least appear) to be a giant dick. If you're a Mycroft fan, or if you love Mollcroft, head on over to my series, Longings and check out the fun.


	6. You Know Where to Find Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of THE CALL (Series/Season Four spoilers). The boys are trying to rebuild their lives, and Sherlock is hoping that more than the furniture can be salvaged. Mycroft makes an unexpected...friend.

          “Jesus,” John sighs gustily, rubbing his neck, “This place is hopeless.” He watches tiredly as a pair of workers shovel debris into a huge, sturdy bin liner.

          “Nonsense John, nothing is hopeless when enough money can be thrown at it.” But Sherlock speaks distractedly, he is sitting in his chair, which is shredded, soot streaked and which is missing a leg. He has solved this last problem by propping it on a stack of damaged books. Nearly everything the pair owns has been damaged in one way or another, although the blast was contained to this room. But the fireball had ruined the carpets, the walls, and roiling smoke had damaged belongings and furnishings in the other rooms.

          The amount of work to be done for the flat to be habitable is tremendous, and while Sherlock just waved his hand and said he’d pay for it all, John is pretty sure that all the actual decisions are going to have to come from him. Well, and Mrs. Hudson, who is in her element, bossing the boys, making tea for the workers, and minding Rosie when John is needed to accompany Sherlock.

          Things aren’t quite back to normal, and it isn’t just the state of 221B; Sherlock has taken a couple of cases, but nothing more than a five, he hasn’t gone to St. Bart’s, his attitude toward Anderson has been (mostly) patient, and he keeps remembering to call Lestrade by his proper first name. Frankly it’s starting to creep John out. He knows how Eurus’ mind games had effected Sherlock, and that the man he had once called a machine has been badly shaken by everything he once thought he knew being turned on its head.

          But it’s more than that. Sherlock had been faced with harsh choices, not the least among them being faced with asking either John or Mycroft to shoot the governor of Sherrinford, and then later Eurus had challenged him to shoot either John or Mycroft. John still couldn’t get Mycroft’s cool manner out of his head, watching the man try to taunt his brother into shooting him, thus sparing him the need to choose his best friend over his brother. It had been incredibly brave of him, and had caused John to rethink his stance on Sherlock’s dick of an older brother. It seemed to have altered Sherlock’s relationship with his brother also, who had paid two visits already in the week since Sherrinford; they still sparred verbally, but their banter lacked the usual barbed sting.

          Everything is back to normal. Only it’s not. Changes, subtle and huge, have caused a seismic shift in their world, and John is still trying to adjust. There’s one other thing bothering him…Molly Hooper. She hasn’t been round, hasn’t called to make sure they are okay, hasn’t been to visit her god-daughter. And Sherlock hasn’t mentioned her, hasn’t gone to Bart’s, sending John instead, on the one occasion he’d had need. Incredibly, he thinks his friend is embarrassed about forcing Molly to tell him that she loved him. It had all been Eurus’ doing, of course, she had made them believe there were explosives in Molly’s flat.

          Molly had said what they all knew, but John remembered Sherlock’s desperation, and the way his voice had dropped as he told Molly he loved her. John felt bad, thinking of Molly’s desperate face as she clung to her mobile. No doubt Sherlock was thinking the same thing. Probably going to give it a little time to cool off and then breeze into the morgue as if nothing had happened.

          “Hoo hoo,” Mrs. Hudson chirped from the hallway, leaning through the door. She refused to come in without donning Wellies. “Boys, lunch is ready.”

          She has been feeding them, and the workers as well, and all work halts as they drop their tasks and start enthusiastically for the door. John goes to follow and sees his friend is not following. “You coming?”

          “Not hungry,” Sherlock says absently. He has been staring at his mobile for the last hour, hardly moving. Must be an interesting case, John thinks as he trots downstairs, probably just a three or four though, something he can solve from his chair.

          Alone in the wrecked flat, Sherlock sits motionless in his chair, staring at his last text sent. He does not think in metaphors, and yet he cannot escape the metaphor of this flat as it relates to his life. Everything that once was has been destroyed by Eurus, and it will take work to bring it back to normal. The only problem is that it wasn’t a bomb, but his own words, which had destroyed Molly Hooper. He can still taste his desperation, feel the sweat run down his spine, as he goaded Molly to tell him she loved him. Given their history, he wasn’t entirely certain she would say it.

          Sherlock looks at the last text he sent. YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME. SH.

          His thumb hesitates, then moves, and he scrolls back through the one-sided conversation, even though he has it committed to memory.

PLEASE?

IF YOU WON’T OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, THEN MINE IS OPEN TO YOU. COME TO ME.

MOLLY, YOU WON’T ANSWER MY CALLS OR TEXTS, NOR ANSWER THE DOOR. I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS AT BART’S.

HOW CAN I EXPLAIN IF YOU WON’T TALK TO ME?

MOLLY.

MOLLY….

MOLLY?

I JUST NEED TO EXPLAIN & THEN I’LL LEAVE YOU ALONE.

MOLLY? ARE YOU THERE?

          “Molly,” he says softly.

          He is gambling that she will come. He is aware that it may be too late, that this time she won’t come to save him.

          He doesn’t hear her enter, but suddenly he is aware she is there. _How can I always tell when she is in the room?_ Sherlock wonders, even as he turns his head to see her standing in the open doorway, the strap of her bag twisted between her hands.

          “I’m here,” she says hoarsely, not looking at him. “Tell me what—whatever it is you have to say, and then _please_ leave me alone.”

          Sherlock stands up slowly, fearing he will send her running if he moves too quickly. She is skittish, and he knows he has one chance to get this right.

          “Won’t you come in? I’m afraid it’s dirty, but the floor is sound…here you can have my chair.”

          “I’m sure it won’t take that long,” Molly tries to sound hard, but he is hopeful that she hasn’t completely closed her heart against him. Not Molly.

          “I…” Sherlock, who is never at a loss for words falters. How the hell can he tell her anything when she is so closed off? Time is running out, John and the workmen will be done with their lunch soon, and he really would prefer not to do this with an audience.

          “Anybody at home?” He hears Greg’s voice call up the stairs, even as his familiar tread brings him into sight. “Hullo! Didn’t expect to see you here at the bomb site, Molls.”

          “Greg,” she smiles briefly.

          “Say, Sherlock, any chance you’ve seen that brother of yours—oh, hey, what a coincidence!”

          Mycroft glides into the room, grimacing at the soot that settles onto his shining wingtips. “Inspector.”

          “Greg, I told you.” Lestrade grins in a friendly fashion. “I was actually looking for you—got a minute?”

          “Of course,” Mycroft gestures down the stairs, “Outside if you don’t mind, I’m afraid the smoke residue plays havoc with my sinuses.” Greg obligingly steps out of the room, but lingers at the head of the stairs; Mycroft turns back to the room, “Ms. Hooper—“

          Molly starts, and looks at him warily, “Yes?”

          “About that matter we discussed—“

          Sherlock is alarmed and interested to note that she goes quite pale, as if she is braced for a blow. “My—“

          “I’ve searched high and low, but I’m afraid there isn’t a trace of evidence. I’m so sorry I wasted your time.”

          They are alone again, and Sherlock doesn’t care if she likes it or not, he has already crossed the room and put his arm around her. Either she doesn’t take it in, or she has decided not to protest, because he is able to guide her down the hall to his bedroom, where at least they are afforded a little privacy. Pushing her down to sit on his bed, he paces. “Just what was that all about?”

          He expects a denial, perhaps a lie, hesitation at the least. Apparently Molly has been bursting to tell him, however, and it all comes rushing out.

          “I waited for you, I did! I was so—so happy when I got home…and then there was your brother, and he explained—he said, he said that it was dangerous for me to be involved with you—“

          “Mycroft,” Sherlock growls softly.

          “I don’t know exactly why—he never said—but at first I refused, I told him that I—anyway, he…convinced me… that I had to do it to keep you safe. He said that if anyone knew about the two of us, it could be incredibly dangerous for—for you.”

          “And you?” Sherlock guessed, watching her tormented face. To be able to put his arms around her…but her body language clearly warned him to keep his distance while she had her say. There is more to this than her concern for him; Mycroft clearly has something on her, but at the moment he doesn’t give a damn what it is. Later, he will find out and he will destroy whatever it was, so that she won’t have to worry.

          “Me too,” she admitted, “but it was you I was worried about. I was terrified for you, even more than I already was. Mycroft made it clear that I wasn’t to tell you the reason, he said he’d take care of telling you that I—that I,” tears started rolling down her cheeks, and she had to stop and press her hands to her mouth before she could go on, “he said he’d tell you I hadn’t waited.”

          “Fuck,” Sherlock said savagely, thinking of that conversation, of his stunned disbelief which had warred with a fear he had been fighting, a sick inner certainty that the possibility of his return wasn’t ever going to be enough to keep Molly Hooper. That he wasn’t enough to keep her.

          “Yeah,” she agreed wearily, “You can say that again…anyway, he set up the whole arrangement with Tom.”

          Sherlock, who had been unable to look at her as he fought his rage with his brother and his own sense of inadequacy, looked up sharply. “What about Tom?”

          “He was a—a—a beard, I suppose you could call him. One of Mycroft’s undercover agents. He was pressed into service as my fiancé, but he was really my minder, my bodyguard, I guess. Mycroft didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut when you came back, and he warned me that I was being watched.”

          “So Mycroft was responsible for your “fiancé” being my doppelgänger?” Sherlock asked waspishly. He had writhed with bitterness and jealousy that Molly hadn’t wanted him, but had instead picked a man who closely resembled him, and who might be his intellectual inferior, but who clearly was able to make her happy. “I’ll kill him.”

          Burying her face in her hands, Molly moaned, “I don’t know why he did it! To torment me, I guess.”

          “I wouldn’t discount it, but he plays a deeper game than that,” Sherlock spoke absently, his mind racing as he considered and discarded scenarios. He was beginning to suspect what lay behind his brother’s interfering.

          “I’m tired of games,” Molly confessed, dropping her hands to her lap and looking him properly in the face for the first time. “Sherlock…why did you call and force me to participate in your “experiment”?”

          He flinched, remembering that day, and recalling too the older memory of Molly worrying that he was engaging in intercourse with her merely as an experiment. ““Oh no, Molly Hooper,”” he recounted his earlier words to her,  “"this is more than that. I want you,”” he stepped closer, close enough to touch, but left his hands hanging at his sides. “I love you.”

          Tears spilled over, and she wrapped her arms around herself, rocking, “Oh God, Sherlock…I can’t take any more games…”

          “This is me talking, in earnest.” Sherlock dared to put his hands on her shoulders, and he pulled her to her feet. She didn’t resist, but her eyes were closed, and it was clear she was hanging onto her composure with a fierce grasp. “I can explain it all to you, but later, please, dear Molly Hooper.” He slipped his arms around her and dipped his head to kiss her wet cheek, “Precious Molly Hooper.” He kissed her other cheek, “Beloved Molly Hooper.” A moment of fear, because she still hadn’t responded, but he remembered her smile on the CCTV footage, as he told her he loved her, and he took courage. Just before he kissed her, Sherlock whispered, “My Molly Hooper.”

          It was hard, he discovered, to kiss a woman when she is sobbing with happiness. He endeavored, however, and then let her bury her face in his chest and cry. When the strongest of her emotions had passed, she sniffed snottily, “Oh God, I’m disgusting.”

          Sherlock agreed, but he had learned a lot about people in the last several years, and thus he manfully kept his mouth shut. Instead, he offered her a clean handkerchief from his pocket and politely turned away while she mopped her face and blew her nose.

          When she was more composed, he sat next to her on the bed and took her hand. “Please say it.”

          She looked at him quickly, and whatever she saw in his face caused the most amazing array of expressions to race over her features. Ducking her head to kiss his hand, which is clasping hers, she looked up with a slight smile. “You know it’s always been true, Sherlock…I love you.” In a stronger voice she affirmed, “I love you.”

          When John walked in, following a perfunctory knock at the door, he was clearly not expecting to find the two of them in an embrace, “Sherlo—oh, I’m sorry.” The door closed, ignored by the two lovers, who were caught up in more important things. The door opened again and John stuck his head back in, “Right. Okay then. Not seeing things.” The door closed again and they were alone.

 

******

 

          “Nice ride,” Greg whistled in admiration, as he followed Mycroft into the sleek black Jaguar at the kerb. “Bit more posh than anything NSY can offer.”

          “The perks of government work,” Mycroft said.

          An amused smile quirked Greg’s mouth, and he leaned back in his corner, “Government work. Yeah. I’m sure every minor government official rides around in a chauffeured Jag.”

          Despite his words, he isn’t challenging Mycroft, who isn’t sure how to engage in this type of lighthearted banter. Somehow it was easier the other night, in the silence of his darkened house.  Of course, he had been imprisoned on an island facility for the criminally insane, and forced to participate in torturous mind games, then knocked out, to awaken alone in a cell. He was bound to be slightly off-kilter following a night like that.

          “You wished to see me?” He enquires politely, looking out the window.

          “Yeah, actually, I found that DVD, the one I told you about. Thought maybe you’d like to come to my place? It’s not quite so, er, ah… baronial as yours, but I’ve got beer, and a flat screen.”

          What is this? A power play? Pity? Friendship? Mycroft swallows. Flirtation?

          “Erm, eh, if you’d rather not…” Greg is clearly put off by Mycroft’s continued silence. “Never mind. Hey, you can drop me off here. It’s my day off, I’ll just walk.”

          Daring to put out a staying hand, Mycroft finally responds, although he continues to stare out the window. Eye contact at this moment is asking too much. He isn’t sure if he has control of his expression, his eyes, and he is wary of giving anything away if he is reading this wrong. “If you’re quite sure, I believe I have some time free this Thursday evening.”

          He can hear Greg settle back into his seat, “Yeah? Great. How about seven?”

          “Seven, yes, I do believe I am free,” lies Mycroft; he has an eidetic memory, and is aware of every appointment and obligation he has for the next six months, but doesn’t want to appear too…eager.

          “Let me give you my number—“ Greg starts, then he huffs out a laugh, “Wait, I _am_ talking to a Holmes, you probably already have it.”

          Mycroft does look at him then, and he smiles, hoping it isn’t his polite society smile, but something a shade warmer. It’s hard to judge these things. He wishes one’s personal life came with some sort of a guide book. “I do have your number, as a matter of fact, Inspector.” He pauses, “Greg.” Clearing his throat, “Do you need my number—“

          The Jaguar purrs to a stop outside Greg’s building, and Greg opens the door, slides part way out then turns back to look at Mycroft, his eyes drop briefly to Mycroft’s mouth and then flit back to his eyes, “I have your number,” his voice is a shade gruffer than usual, and his words seems to hang weighty with meaning, “Mycroft.” Without another word he exits the vehicle and trots up the stairs.

          Possibly he is mistaken—it would not be the first time that he has misjudged people’s words and actions—but Mycroft is fairly certain that Greg Lestrade was trying to tell him something.

          As his driver accelerates and joins the stream of traffic, Mycroft closes his eyes and replays the encounter, then—as he has done more than once this past week—he relives his rescue from the cell at Sherrinford, and the evening that had followed.

          The sight of Detective Inspector Lestrade striding up to the glass observation wall had been a welcome one, and when he spoke reassuringly and said they would have him out in a jiff, Mycroft had had to restrain a sudden urge to press his hand to the dividing glass. As horrific as Eurus’ “experiments” had been, the hours he had spent alone in the enclosed space had been worse, he was haunted by all his bad choices and the barricade of lies he had kept between himself and his family; the time alone mocked him with his many shortcomings.    

          Lestrade—Greg—had kept him company until a key could be found, and he had assured him that a team had already located Sherlock and John Watson, as well as Eurus. Leaving him in the hands of the ambulance team, who refused to let him leave until he had been thoroughly checked out—Greg had solemnly promised him that he would personally make sure that Sherlock and Eurus were safe and unharmed.

          Nothing could have surprised him more, than to exit the hospital hours later and find Greg waiting for him. Playing cat’s cradle with a bit of string, he was leaning up against the bonnet of his car. “Thought you might like a ride home,” he’d offered with casual warmth. Mycroft thanked him and texted his PA that she could return home. Watching Greg loop the string neatly and tuck it in his pocket, Mycroft was reminded of Detective Mark McPherson in _Laura_ , an excellent American film noir; McPherson was wonderfully acted by Dana Andrews, who spent his time fiddling with a small handheld puzzle. Dana Andrews was a handsome and laconic man in the film, but Mycroft thought he had nothing on Greg Lestrade, who was warmer, better looking—he slammed the door firmly shut on that line of thinking and climbed wearily into Lestrade’s vehicle.

          Arriving to his darkened house, silent and empty, the day staff long gone home, Mycroft was…relieved…not to be alone. “I’ll come in with you, make sure there aren’t any nasty surprises, yeah?” Without waiting for his assent, Greg had followed him in, and walked through every room, Mycroft trailing behind him. _Useless_ , he told himself, _you’re old and useless and pathetic_.

          Walking into Mycroft’s home theatre, Greg whistled in admiration, “This is a sight better than my set up! A genuine reel to reel…” he picked up the film canister, “Hey, I’ve heard of this one! It’s rare, no wonder you’re not watching it on DVD!” Greg grinned engagingly at him, “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan of detective flicks.”

          “A weakness from childhood,” Mycroft excused.

          “Yeah, me too. I always wanted to be Sam Spade.”

          “He got all the girls,” Mycroft observed a bit hollowly.

          “Mm, yeah.” Greg walked back into the hallway. “Looks like you’re okay here…” he paused at the foot of the stairs. “You gonna be alright, mate?”

          “Thank you for your concern, Detective Inspector, but I’m sure you want to get home to your family. It’s dinner time.”

          “It’s Greg, or Lestrade, if you like. And there’s no family to go home to…Stella and I divorced a few years ago. Irreconcilable differences,” Greg said in a voice heavy with irony. “You could probably use something to eat, hey? How long’s it been?”

          “Well, I—“ Mycroft hesitated, as he honestly couldn’t remember; but it makes no difference; Greg’s long legs carried him to the kitchen, Mycroft in his wake. “You must be done in after all that, how ‘bout I make you something?”

          “Uh—“ Mycroft is at a loss. He’s met the Detective Inspector before, several times, but always in connection with his brother, and never so informally.

          Greg flicks on lights, bangs through cupboards looking for things; Mycroft is unable to help him. His staff leaves meals in the restaurant size refrigerator and he heats them in the microwave when he comes home. When he eats, that is.

          Feeling useless, he brings whiskey to the kitchen and they sip as Mycroft sits uneasily and observes Greg making himself at home. In short order he had made an omelet, tossed together a salad and set out bread, butter, and marmalade on the table which Mycroft had set with hesitation for two. Tea would probably be the more likely beverage, but after a bit of indecision, he pulls a bottle of wine from his cellar and sets it on the table.

          Eating with another person in his home is a novel experience; Mycroft isn’t exactly sure how he feels about it, but after the last several unsettling days, he is glad not to be alone. Conversation is a bit stilted, but after the Dete—Greg brings up detective movies, they fall into an easier pattern of talk.

          “No, thank you, you’ve done far too much, you can just leave it,” Mycroft assures him when he tries to clean up. He doesn’t mention that he will leave it all for the staff. Greg is hardly likely to have staff. He is not sure why he cares what the other man thinks; they are not going to see each other again, except in passing.

          “If I find that DVD, I’ll let you know.”

          It is doubtless one of those polite social comments people make to ease their way out the door. “You know where to find me,” Mycroft says politely, as he closes the door behind him.


	7. The Science of Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock spend a day in the lab, but things take a bit of a left turn when they head home. John gets an unexpected visitor and a surprising end to his day. Greg and Mycroft each reflect on their situation.

          It’s been seven weeks, and Greg isn’t sure whether he and Mycroft are becoming friends or forging the world’s most cautious relationship.

          On the one hand, they haven’t had any significant physical contact, even though they have spent several evenings at one another’s homes, watching movies and having dinner. There was also a tentative evening at a rather swanky gastro pub, which had been awkward but fulfilling, Mycroft unbending enough to tell Greg more about himself. Although that might have been down to the pints they had consumed.

          On the other, there is a charged atmosphere whenever they are in a room together—Greg isn’t sure if anyone else, including Mycroft, is aware of it, but he certainly feels it—and the almost mythically remote and unapproachable Mycroft Holmes _is_ spending time with him.

          Their conversation is not always easy; in fact, sometimes pulling words out of Mycroft is like interrogating a suspect—only without the bright lights, threats or official record. But overall the two of them are growing comfortable in one another’s presence, and Greg has decided to be cautiously optimistic, and to just enjoy getting to know the man.

          And despite what past experience (and Sherlock) would have led him to believe, he _is_ enjoying it. Very much. He hasn’t been this excited about anyone in a long time.

          “What’s with you, Greg?” Donovan asked, striding down the stairs with him, “You’ve been smiling to yourself all morning, and yesterday you were _whistling_.” She squinted at him, her narrow face suspicious, “You—uh, you’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

          Biting back a grin at her near slip—he’s pretty sure she was about to accuse him of getting laid—Greg just tosses her the car keys, “Why don’t you drive?”

          “You never let me drive,” She stands at the boot, surprised at his sudden relinquishing of control. “What’s going on with you today?”

          “It’s a gorgeous spring day and I thought for once I’d let someone else do the driving,” he shrugged at her, “besides, I have a few emails to send.” Without waiting for her assent, he sits in the passenger seat and buckles himself in, pulling out his mobile. He wasn’t lying, he is going to send some emails; but he is also going to text Mycroft.

          Sally loses no time in setting off, driving a bit too fast and screeching a little around the corners. This is part of the reason he normally does the driving, she’s a shit driver. Hoping he doesn’t get car sick, Greg shoots off a few emails, sends his ex-wife Stella a text letting her know he got the package she forwarded from an old Army buddy of his, and then prepares to invite his…boyfriend?...friend?...Mycroft on a… date?

          Fuck it, he’s calling it a date. That’s how he’s thinking of it. Greg realizes he’s smiling again, looking forward with anticipation to seeing Mycroft. Maybe he’ll make a move, make it clear what he wants.

 

******

 

          “Molly,” Sherlock calls absently, “Did you ever bring me that coffee?”

          He hears soft footsteps, and then there is the light touch of her small hand on his back, her voice answering from near his shoulder, “I brought it to you an hour ago but you just grunted and kept on staring at your slide.” He can hear the smile in her voice, and he sits up from his microscope; stretching, Sherlock turns to his…hmm, paramour? He hasn’t decided on a good appellation for her, as girlfriend sounds too juvenile and lover seems to lack all sense of propriety or restraint.

          “Did you? Ah.” Spying the paper cup of coffee next to his notebook, he reaches for it, only to have Molly advise him that it will be stone cold. “It really has been an hour, Sherlock. Why don’t you take a break and come upstairs with me? We could have a coffee together.” Her smile is hopeful, and it is enough for him to stop and reconsider his first reactions, which were impatience and the instinct to wheedle her into brining him a fresh coffee.

          John had warned him that he was going to have to watch his tendency to be a “colossal dick” if he wanted to maintain a long-term relationship with Molly. Since Sherlock did very much want to do just that—good god, when had he become someone who wanted a relationship?—he decided to take John’s advice to hand. Even if John wasn’t exactly a sterling example of fidelity or longevity when it came to relationships.

          So it was that Sherlock found himself taking a break from his research to share elevenses with Molly Hooper. Knowing how he felt about public displays of affection, Molly just walked beside him without touching, although she did slip her hand into his in the lift. He gave it a squeeze but released her hand when the lift doors opened, and couldn’t restrain a small smile at the bounce in her step.

          They each grabbed a coffee, and Molly chose some biscuits as well, more than needed for one her size. His suspicion that she was going to try to coerce him to eat proved true. He acquiesced, not only because he wasn’t on a case that required he focus on facts rather than food, but because Molly was cute when she flirted. Without touching her, or saying a word, Sherlock promised retaliation later. Molly’s eyes sparkled happily. Really, this relationship thing was quite easy.

 

******

 

          “You’re the only girl in my life, love,” John promised, dropping a kiss on the blond curls tucked beneath his chin. He smiled at the sweet armful he was cuddling, “No one else but you.”

          Rosie dropped her toy and looked up at him, trying to make a grab for his mouth; she was fascinated by mouths, always trying to cram her little starfish hands in her own mouth, reaching for the moving lips, teeth and tongues of whoever was holding her. She had also begun trying to stick anything and everything in her mouth, regardless of its suitability. John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson…everyone, really, they were all run ragged trying to keep up with Rosie Watson, who was growing by the day and always into something.

          Between his part-time gig at the clinic, running cases with Sherlock and trying to raise his daughter, John was feeling spread pretty thin. He was thankful for the people in his life, all of whom had pitched in to help with Rosie. Mrs. Hudson was an enthusiastic baby-sitter; Molly had been invaluable, especially after Mary…especially after Mary. Sherlock was a real surprise, lending a hand and becoming a fairly good baby-sitter for short periods of time; the biggest help was at night, when Rosie needed something, he was available as he slept less than John and was usually up. Even Mycroft had been of assistance, not only finding, but vetting a day care center.

          John had swallowed his pride—and a good deal of old bitterness—and invited his sister Harry to come visit a few times. She was on the wagon again, it had been nearly two years since she had dried out, and they were tentatively trying to reconnect. Following her bitter divorce with Clara, Harry’s relationship with her girlfriend Cecily had imploded due to her drinking. Rather diffidently she had confided in John that she was trying to see how it felt to be single and sober. He rather suspected it wasn’t as easy as she would have liked.

          It’s easy for John to sympathize, as he is having a hard time remaining celibate and single. Guilt over his mental affair, grief over Mary, the overwhelming responsibility of being a single dad, none of it is quite enough to drown out his baser needs. Ever since he hit puberty, his libido has been intense; when he was single it was fine, he played the field, slept around, and had relationships that mostly remained casual. Something about being married had stifled him, much though he loved Mary, and when Eurus (though he hadn’t known her as Eurus then, of course) had flirted with him, he had dived in with a sense of relief that rivaled his sense of guilt.

          Even now, John wasn’t sure if he would have found himself lusting after another woman if he hadn’t had an underlying sense of anger about Mary’s tremendous deception. True, he had forgiven her; and true, he had intended them to start afresh…but a small part of him must have withheld a small degree of forgiveness.

          And too, being so domestic, so suburban, had not been the life he envisioned for himself (part of the reason he had joined the Army after he obtained his medical degree). The illicit excitement of even an affair of the mind had elevated him above the boredom of routine: work, taking out the trash, changing nappies and getting by on too little sleep and too little sex. The bald truth was that he wasn’t a very good man. He wasn’t good at remaining devoted to one woman and that was the truth of it.

          But now, now he had no choice. Oh, true, he could sleep around, but he had his daughter to think of. The choices he would make affected her too, and the weight of that responsibility was driving him mad. Sometimes the restlessness would take over and John would deposit Rosie with Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Sherlock and walk the streets for hours. He was never sure if he was looking for sex, danger or just escape. But he always came home to Rosie.

          “And I always will,” John promised, capturing her hand in his and kissing the small fingers. “Daddy may not be very good at being a husband, but he swears he’ll do his best to be a great father.”

          “Aw, aren’t the two of you adorable?”

          John looked up with a start and then smiled, “Janine, hi! What are you doing here?” He set Rosie down and stood up from the floor where they had been playing with giant Legos. Straightening with a bit of a grimace—he was forty-five after all—John stepped across the rug scattered with toys and hugged the attractive brunette standing in the open doorway. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, I thought you were in France still.”

          “Just got back the day before yesterday. I ran into Sherlock and he said I should drop round.” Janine smiled at Rosie, who was watching them with interest while drooling on a Lego. “John, she’s gotten so big! Hello, darling girl, can I hold you?”

          She held out her hands to Rosie, who dropped her block and regarded her solemnly. “She’s gotten a bit shy around strangers,” John apologized. “I don’t think she recognizes you. What’s it been? Four months?”

          Janine slipped off her heels and knelt on the rug, “Just about. It was marvelous, but I’m exhausted. Luckily we should be staying put for a time.” Following her rather dramatic exit from Magnussen’s employ, and the whirlwind media circus she had stirred up regarding her “relationship” with Sherlock, Janine had retired to her cottage in Sussex to decide what she was going to do next. After a while she got bored of the quiet and returned to town, eventually landing a gig as personal assistant to a fashion editor.

          “I love my job, but it’s good to be back home,” She stacked a few blocks and laughed as Rosie batted at them, toppling the stack. “And you, John? How are you?”

          “Eh, you know, adjusting to raising this girl on my own has been something of an eye opener. But I’ve got a great support team, so I can’t really complain.”

          Janine smiled sympathetically, “Well you look like you’re doing pretty well. Both of you.” She erected a taller stack of blocks for Rosie and tucked her legs to the side, leaning on one arm, “I hope you’ll let me know if you need anything though. My schedule is pretty flexible—part of the reason I love my job—and I can pitch in if you need a break.”

          John told himself to stop staring at her legs in their seamed stockings. God, he loved seamed stockings! And Janine had a killer pair of legs. _Stop it, Watson_ , he lectured himself, _she’s a friend, for God’s sake_. Mary’s _friend._

“Thanks, uh, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. But you don’t have to wait on me to call you…you’re always welcome to pay us a visit. Rosie’d love to see her Auntie Janine more.”

          “That’s what Sherlock said,” Janine laughed, easing Rosie onto her lap.

          “Oh did he?” Just what was his friend up to?

 

******

 

          _What am I doing?_ Mycroft didn’t shift in his seat, although he wanted to. To any observer, he appeared to be paying full attention to the Minister of Transport. However, since that worthy lady was both long-winded and predictable, he was able to listen with part of his mind while the rest tackled this…situation with Gregory Lestrade. _How did I let it get to this?_

          Earlier in the day he had received a text from the detective, asking him to join him for a picnic that coming Sunday. While he appreciated the advance notice, his schedule being what it is, Mycroft cannot help but ponder just how he has come to be contemplating attending a picnic with a man he suspects is beginning to have more than friendship in mind.

          He is not sure if he wants that. He is not sure it is wise. But he has a difficult time, he finds, compartmentalizing his personal life when it comes to Greg. Normally he is able to shut off his natural impulses and operate on logic and sound reason. When he finds he needs sexual release, he has a very discreet and very reliable house of pleasure he can retire to. They have been in operation for generations, and their staff are not only securely vetted, they are trained to be close mouthed and secretive about the clientele; and they are also screened regularly for STIs.

          Not that he thinks Greg will be either unclean or indiscreet. But he has never entered into what anyone would call a normal relationship. Not only is Mycroft not sure that he wants to, he is not sure that he _can_. Whatever else Greg Lestrade is, he is normal. Happy, well-adjusted (aside from his history with his ex-wife) and living his life mostly in the public eye. He is not like Mycroft, who has spent his life keeping secrets and telling lies, balancing the well-being of the nation against the toll it takes on him and others.

          There is a very great chance that he cannot not be what Greg needs.

 

******

 

          “I needed that,” Janine flops back on the bed, panting, “God, John Watson, you’re a devil in the sack.” She rubbed her foot, still in its stocking, over his sweaty chest and smiled. “Been saving that up for a while, have you?”

          Fighting a sense of guilt, John can’t help but laugh. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.” He catches her foot in his hand, massages the arch, kisses the toes. “Thank you for leaving the stockings on.” She is naked aside from her thigh high seamed stockings and a pair of earrings, and he feels a stirring of desire despite his very recent orgasm.

          “No, thank you,” She says with emphasis, rolling onto her side and propping her head on one hand. Her smile gleams with naughty delight, dark eyes raking his nude form from head to foot. “It’s the least I can do.”

          It is late afternoon and they are alone, Mrs. Hudson gone to the shops, Rosie down for her nap, and Sherlock still at the lab. John hadn’t intended any of this to happen. He’d invited Janine to stay for lunch, and afterward she had rocked Rosie to sleep and when John had come back from laying his daughter in her crib, he had found Janine wandering the living room, marveling at how well the flat had been recreated following the explosion.

          Foolishly, John had offered her another glass of wine. Not that he could blame this on too much to drink. They had each had two glasses, and were perfectly sober. Especially now that they had burned off the alcohol with their bedroom antics.

          “Feeling guilty?”

          With a start, John realizes he has been wrapped up in his thoughts. “Uh, well…”

          Her smile is knowing, sympathetic. “First time since Mary?”

          “Yeah,” John blows out a stream of air, and sadness, “I um, I feel a bit like I cheated.”

          “Mary knew you weren’t a saint, John,” Janine shifted on the bed, “I don’t think she would begrudge you a little pleasure after the last year.”

          “Maybe,” John is non-committal, although he does feel a bit better.

          “So…do you feel too sad to go again?” Janine smiles teasingly, and sits up, drawing John’s eyes to her body. “I’m sure we have time for a quickie before Rosie wakes up.”

          “I…think that can be arranged,” John says slowly, smiling at her with heavy-lidded eyes which gleam at her seductively. He pulls aside the bedsheet, so she can see that he is indeed ready, willing and able.

          “Mmm,” she purrs, crawling up the bed over him, rubbing her hands over his lightly furred legs, stroking the old scar on his thigh, kissing the crease between his leg and his groin. John lies back, folding his hands behind his head and enjoys her approach. When she slides her warm hand over his straining flesh, and then dips her head and takes him in her mouth, his head falls back and his eyes close. “Ah, Christ, Janine…”

 

******

 

          “So of course, given the angle of the gunshot wound, and the lack of grass-stains on the wife’s trousers, it had to be her brother who killed him.” Sherlock has had too many cups of coffee and has been rather manically talking for some time. Molly resolves to cut him off after three cups in the future.

          “Brilliant,” She says absently, as the finishes the last of her notes on the final post mortem she had performed. Sending the report to the printer, she turns off her desk lamp and starts gathering her things. “As soon as I’ve taken care of the paperwork for the PM, we can go.” She gathers the pages from the printer, uses the three-hole punch and inserts them into the folder, bending down the tabs, initialing the pages and tucking it into her outbox. “Done!”

          Sherlock has been pacing her office and he sighs dramatically, “Finally!” He looms over her in his Belstaff, collar popped, hands clenching in his pockets. Yes, definitely no more than three cups.

          “I told you that you were welcome to leave earlier, Sherlock,” Molly locks her office door and gives him a smile. “I could have met you at yours.”

          “Ah, no.”

          “No? But I thought we were going to have dinner with John tonight? I bought a book for Rosie, I was going to give it to her…” Molly trails off, eyes her boyfriend’s smug smile suspiciously. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what have you done? You’d best not have drugged John again!”

          Loftily sticking his nose in the air, Sherlock holds the door of the stairwell open for her then clatters rapidly down the steps ahead of her, taking them three at a time. Shaking her head fondly at the idiot, Molly followed more slowly, weighed down by her purse as well as the overnight bag she had intended to use when she stayed over at 221B, and the gift bag containing Rosie’s book. “Hurry up, Molly!” He calls back impatiently, “You’re too slow.”

          “It isn’t a bloody race,” she grumbled under her breath, but picked up the pace a bit. “ _Did_ you drug John? Sherlock? Sherlock!” Catching up with him, Molly resisted the urge to stick out a leg and trip him. “Sherlock, why aren’t we going to your place?”

          Rolling his eyes, he slowed his pace to match hers, “I haven’t drugged anyone—recently—and the reason we can’t go back to Baker Street is because at this very time, if my calculations are correct, they are engaging in coitus for the third time.”

          _Coitus?!_ Molly’s amusement is side tracked when she stops to think about what he has said. “Wait, what? Who is—not…John? No!” She is honestly a little shocked; John has only been widowed for less than a year. Somehow she would have thought he would be grieving still. _Not my business_ , she thought forcefully, _John can do as he pleases_.

          “John and who?” Molly asks even though it is none of her business.

          “Janine.”

          “Janine? Mary’s bridesmaid Janine?” _Your bloody “girlfriend” Janine?_ Molly swells with rage and tries to stamp it out. It was fake, Sherlock has assured her of that, and she believes him. Still, she bristles at the mere thought of the woman. As if it weren’t enough that she were tall and gorgeous and confident, she had gotten to play the part of Sherlock’s girlfriend for a month, and then walked away a richer woman since she had sold him down river to the media. Just thinking about her sets Molly’s teeth on edge.

          Sherlock looks back, “Why have you stopped?” He cocks his head, considers her. “Oh, is it Janine?” When she nods he assumes a superior look, “I’ve told you, I forgave her for those ridiculous stories in the press. After all, I don’t care what people think. And I did use her, so it’s only fair that she be compensated.”

          Unable to believe how really, really dumb he is being, Molly gives her boyfriend an incredulous look and stomps down the stairs to the tube station. She can hear Sherlock’s long stride loping along behind her, but she is in the lead now, rage giving her greater locomotion.

          “Why aren’t you looking at me?” Sherlock seems genuinely puzzled. Molly reminds herself desperately that he isn’t like other people and takes a deep breath.

          Speaking quietly so the other passengers around them aren’t privy to every word, Molly tells him, “Unlike you, I’m not fine with her telling the whole world those lies about you. _But._ That isn’t the reason I’m upset. I—I guess I thought John would mourn Mary longer…not jump right into bed with her best friend.” Molly knows, logically, that this isn’t true, but she is upset. Mary had become a good friend, and Molly had been touched to be asked to be Rosie’s god-mother, and horrified and grieved when Mary died. She couldn’t imagine being in Janine’s shoes and sleeping with John Watson. She also can’t believe that Sherlock doesn’t get that she is ridiculously jealous of Janine.

          Sherlock’s eyes light up as he understands why she is upset, then his look turns thoughtful. “Don’t be too harsh with John, Molly. He does indeed miss Mary, and he is carrying a tremendous weight of guilt…but John was never a very domestic type. The fact that he married is frankly startling; the fact that he hasn’t been with a woman since Mary died is a testament to his guilt. I doubt he would have caved for another five to six months if I hadn’t intervened.”

          Looking very proud of himself, Sherlock doesn’t at first realize that Molly’s face has gone red with temper. “Sherlock Holmes! Are you telling me you set this up?”

          “I merely arranged matters so that—“ catching sight of her incredulous face, he breaks off, “What?”

          “’What’? Really, you ask me ‘what’?” Molly clamps her lips on a shriek, and finally addresses him through clenched teeth, “It wasn’t your place to do that! Maybe John wasn’t ready to move on. Maybe _some_ people love a person even when they’re dead! Maybe you just threw temptation in his path and he’s beating himself up about it!” Molly muscles her way forcefully through the crowd streaming out of the car, and all but runs up the stairs out of the station. Sherlock, protesting feebly, sprints along behind her as she runs for the bus, which is just about to leave.

          Sticking out a laden arm, Molly stops the bus doors from closing and gives the driver a death glare when he tells her to hurry up. Turning in the doorway, she focuses that glare at Sherlock, glad for the extra height the step gives her. “Don’t bother coming home with me. I’m furious in case you hadn’t _deduced_ that!” Stepping back, Molly lets the bus doors close and fights a bubble of hysteria, unsure if she wants to scream or cry. She watches as Sherlock recedes in the distance, looking confused.

 

******

 

          Manfully repressing a sigh, Mycroft stops contemplating the contents of his closet and leans against the dressing room door. “What do you want now, little brother?”

          “I’ve upset Molly.”

          “That didn’t take long,” Mycroft closes his eyes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. _Damn_ , he had sworn, after Sherrinford, that he would be more patient and less critical. Old habits. “Sorry, you were saying?”

          “I merely arranged for Janine and John to cross paths—really, I was doing John a _favor_ —and Molly took it completely the wrong way!”

          “Oh Sherlock, can’t you leave well enough alone? I calculated that it would be at least eight months before he indulged. I think he would have been better served to have waited until he was ready, and for it to have happened with someone who didn’t have ties to his dead wife.”

          Sherlock’s snort is clear as a bell, “You’re _so_ wrong, Mycroft. I know John better than you, and I say it would have been six months. And the fact that Janine knew Mary, knows all of us, it will just make it easier on John.”

          “You believe it will happen again?”

          “John is pretty needy. He craves female companionship to an alarming degree.”

          “Says the man with the girlfriend,” Mycroft hems delicately.

          “You’ve no room to talk, brother dear…just what is it you’re doing with Greg Lestrade?”

          “…merely cultivating friendship. You were the one who was concerned about my “isolation” not that many years ago.”

          “That doesn’t account for the spring in your step, the new lines of anxiety around your eyes or the _di_ -et.” Sherlock sings the last softly, as annoying as only a little brother can be. Mycroft huffs, “I’m _not_ on a diet, the anxiety is purely due to work, and I challenge you to find a single person who detects a spring in my step.” His tone drips pure disdain, and he hopes he can annoy his brother sufficiently to side track this conversation. He isn’t going to discuss Gregory or his diet with Sherlock. “Forgive me for asking, but just what is it that you need from me in regards to Ms. Hooper?”

          “Mm, yes. I have, of course, worked out just why you stuck your big nose in my business and set up the meeting in New Orleans between Molly and myself. And I’ve further discovered your reasons for the subterfuge regarding her fake fiancé and the lies she told me.”

          “Oh?” Mycroft tries to inject the right amount of disinterest in his tone.

          “What I can’t figure out is just what it is that you were holding over Molly’s head to keep her from revealing everything and drawing Eurus’ attention back to her. That was the reason you intervened, wasn’t it?”

          “Knowing how…lonely…you were in your exile, I thought you would benefit from a little friendly companionship. And I thought Ms. Hooper deserved some reward for her part in faking your suicide. Unfortunately, there was someone watching Ms. Hooper, and it turns out that he was indeed reporting to our sister. When she taunted me with the knowledge, I became concerned for Ms. Hooper’s well-being.”

          “And the reason _you_ let me believe that Molly had…forgotten me?” Sherlock’s tone strives for indifference, but Mycroft can hear the distress.

          “Believe me, brother mine, I only did it for the best of reasons. I wanted the break to be believable; also, I saw that Ms. Hooper was distracting you.”

          “Oh, hardly—“

          “Mm, do you recall Le Havre?”

          A lengthy silence, then, “Perhaps you had reason.” A longer silence, “What was it that you were holding over Molly? I want to take care of it for her, so that she’ll forgive me.”

          Cursing silently, Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Damn_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, oh dear...just what IS Molly's secret?


	8. A Dose of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to balance emotion and logic in his attempt to smooth things over with Molly. John reflects on his regrets and his personal awareness. Mycroft and Greg finally have their picnic...and dessert as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I updated, I've got too many plates in the air, endeavoring to keep multiple fics going. Hope this was worth the wait!

          Used to subterfuge, and unwilling to make his private life any more public than necessary, Mycroft had eschewed his usual driver and instead walked three blocks from his home, hailed a taxi which took him to Piccadilly, then walked two blocks and hailed another taxi, which he had drop him off five blocks from the address Gregory had given him.

          He ducked into a busy café, swapped his flat tweed cap for a fedora, shed his thin jacket and bundled it into his rucksack and changed sunglasses. There, sufficient to throw off casual observers; not like this was Istanbul, no need for a full change of disguise. No belly dancing costume this time.

          Double checking his phone, Mycroft looked around. He didn’t see a park, just a few shops, some houses and…a cemetery; a tiny, overgrown, seemingly abandoned cemetery.  _Alright then_. Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the wrought iron gate, which opened at his touch. Someone was inside then. Impossible, of course, for the sounds of the city to be muffled simply by stepping inside the cemetery grounds, but he could have sworn that a peaceful sense of seclusion blanketed him upon entry. The gravestones were all quite old, softly furred in moss and leaning companionably toward one another. He followed the leaf-strewn brick path, which was humped with tree roots and vividly colored with lichen, looking through the memorials and shaggy trees for some sign that he was in the right place…

          “Myc, over here!” Gregory’s voice, softer than usual in deference to their surroundings, hailed him cheerfully nonetheless. Mycroft winced at the abbreviation of his name, which reminded him too forcibly of childhood infractions and always made him feel undignified and as if he might be wearing knee-pants.

          Greg was standing next to an impressively large sarcophagus, which was flat-topped and spread with a fleece blanket, and upon which stood a good sized collapsible cooler. The sun was weak but the weather was warm and dry, and fitful shafts of sunlight poked through the trees and made Greg’s silver-gray hair gleam like pewter. He really was a very striking man. This was the first time Mycroft had seen him so casually dressed—not, he reflected, that Greg Lestrade was a fashion icon—and  despite his gray hair he looked younger than his fifty-three years in jeans, a faded black t-shirt and a navy blue windbreaker. Mycroft was suddenly grateful he had dressed down, although his khakis, plaid button down and leather loafers still felt formal in comparison.

          “I like the hat,” Greg smiled and nodded at his head gear, and Mycroft fought the urge to blush. This man kept him in a constant state of upheaval.

          “Ah, yes, thank you,” Mycroft took it off and smoothed a hand over his hair, removed the sunglasses, which were unnecessary in the shade, “Mostly it affords me a degree of anonymity, but I must confess I have always liked a good hat.”

          “All the best detectives wore a fedora in the old films,” Greg commented. He carefully stubbed out his cigarette and tucked the butt in an outer pocket of his rucksack. “Glad you found me.”

          “…yes,” Mycroft replied after a pause, trying to determine if it had been his imagination, or whether the other man had intended it to sound so loaded with romantic undertones. “I admit I was not expecting a graveyard.”

          “I know the sexton,” the detective said, propping a hip on the edge of the sarcophagus, “He and I belong to the same bowls club. This place hasn’t seen a burial in nearly fifty years and maybe only gets half a dozen visitors a year. I figured this would be a nice, quiet place to have a private meal.” He patted the stone next to him, “Know how you like your privacy.”

          Mycroft eased himself onto the stone, leaving slightly more room between them than Gregory’s hand had indicated, “Thank you for that. It’s easier not to have to worry about the political ramifications of every meeting.”

          “Would there be political ramifications if people saw us having a picnic?”

          The look they shared made the hairs on his arm stand up, so Mycroft looked away, feeling overwhelmed, “Perhaps. There is a certain subtext to two men eating al fresco.” There, he’d come as close to the subject as he could without being blunt. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d been blunt about anything.

          “And is that subtext misplaced?” Greg snorted, clapped his hands, “Okay, enough double-talk. Not my style.” He turned a little, hands on knees, not touching Mycroft but his presence, his heat, his musky smell crowded Mycroft. “What are we doing here? If you’re just interested in friendship, well, I could always use a friend.” A wry grin, “I lost most of ‘em in the divorce. But Mycroft, just in case you hadn’t noticed,” he lightly laid his hand on Mycroft’s knee, pinned him with those dark brown eyes, “I’m interested in more than friendship.”

         

******

 

          “Hey, Mrs. Hudson,” John greeted the landlady as she bustled into the flat, “I really appreciate you watching Rosie for me; I wasn’t expecting them to call me in to work today.”

          “No problem, John, you know I love the dear child. You’re just lucky my poker game was cancelled.” Mrs. Hudson tsked when she saw the periodicals, books and gossip mags scattered all over; the remains of John’s hastily eaten breakfast and a bowl bearing congealed traces of Rosie’s porridge sat on the end table next to his chair, and Sherlock had left an overflowing ashtray on the windowsill. “Honestly, you boys are a right mess! This sort of disorder won’t work when that child is walking properly.”

          John looped the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, checked that he had his keys, gave Mrs. Hudson’s cheek a smacking kiss which made her blush and swat at his arm, and threw an apology over his shoulder as he ran out the door. Mrs. Hudson tickled Rosie’s back as that young lady industriously tried to cram her teddy’s ear in her mouth. Unable to bear the mess, she began tidying, muttering to herself. Once the flat was bearable, she turned the kettle on (resolutely not looking at the dishes in the sink) and dropped onto the couch to have a chat with Rosie. Her hip wouldn’t allow her to sit on the floor with the child, but they had an amiable relationship and Martha encouraged Rosie’s nonsense as she played.

          An hour later, two cups of tea consumed, one story read, countless blocks knocked over, Martha popped in an educational children’s DVD for Rosie and put her feet up. She had piled Sherlock’s gossip mags on the side table and she reached for one now, adjusting the Union Flag pillow behind the small of her back. Keeping an eye on young Miss Watson, she caught up on celebrity scandals, alien sightings and the latest diet fads. Their peace was interrupted by a ringing of the bell, and she frowned as she got to her feet and picked Rosie up. _Fancy having to take these stairs with my hip and this child_ , she grumbled to herself.

          “Oh! Well, hello,” Martha said, a bit flustered; she honestly hadn’t expected to see Sherlock’s erstwhile girlfriend on her stoop. “I’m afraid Sherlock isn’t in.”

          Janine smiled, “Actually I was here to see John…is he in?”

          Suppressing a sniff, Martha held Rosie a little tighter when the mite reached for the younger woman, “He’s out.” She didn’t elaborate, and the other woman’s bright smile faltered.

          “Oh, okay then. I—we erm…Tell John I stopped by, would you?” She fiddled with her handbag and then smiled a bit tightly, “Bye then. Bye Rosie,” Janine waggled her fingers at the toddler, who reached for her.

          “Say bye, Rosie,” Martha instructed, and swung the door closed. Hmphf, who did that trollop think she was, coming round here for John after everything she had done to Sherlock? Martha didn’t care if Janine wanted to have sex with the entire population of Great Britain, but she couldn’t betray her boy then come sniffing round after John, who was heartbroken enough. No need to tell him she had stopped by. “We’ll just keep this to ourselves, eh Rosie?”

 

******

 

          The problem with fighting, Molly mused, was that once the righteous indignation and the flaming temper faded; you were left with resentment, regret and in her case, guilt. Their fight—well, her fight, Sherlock’s confusion—had been about more than Sherlock setting up Janine and John, and Molly’s feelings about how that flew in the face of honoring Mary’s memory. It really wasn’t any of her business what John did in his private life, and she knew that intellectually. But she had become Mary’s friend during those long months of her pregnancy, when John had barely spoken with his wife, and their friendship had lasted once the couple was reconciled.

          Molly had spent some lovely evenings and Saturdays with the couple, and seeing the two of them finding happiness and building a family had given her hope. Hope that despite the fact that she was thirty-six, had a failed engagement and a string of short-lived, disastrous relationships behind her, that she too would be able to find that kind of happiness one day.

          Being asked to be Rosamunde’s godmother had been a privilege for her, and she had mourned Mary’s death, throwing herself into helping John with his daughter. She had seen, firsthand, how eaten up by guilt and grief he had been, witnessed the days of depression when he could hardly function. It was hard for her to reconcile that with the thought of him sleeping with another woman.

          On top of that, was her confused feeling of abandonment that Sherlock had set up the encounter. After her initial fury had passed, Molly had cried with unhappiness, misery and worry. This was the first fight as a couple that they had had, and she was slightly terrified that Sherlock would decide it was all too much trouble and tell her he was done. She didn’t want to lose him—and examining it from all angles—she realized that it wasn’t just indignation on Mary’s behalf that she felt, it was a niggling worry that Sherlock would find it equally easy to move on from _her_.

          While, up until the fight, she had been happy— _very_ happy— Molly now realized that in the back of her mind she had been worried as well. The intensity of their sexual encounters had lessened over the weeks, as had the frequency with which Sherlock seemed to be interested in sex. He hadn’t exactly returned to his former ways, Sherlock had taken to eating meals with her, taking a break from work here and there in the lab just to chat, and they had even gone out to Angelo’s for a candle-lit dinner one evening. But…the man he had been in New Orleans wasn’t there. Molly was very much afraid that they had both been fooling themselves, and it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes who had fallen in love with Molly Hooper, but rather Greg Martin. And was the same true for her? Did she love the real Sherlock, or just the Sherlock he had been for eleven and a half days during one magical holiday?

 

******

 

          “Infuriating,” Sherlock muttered to himself, as he paced the flat. Molly hadn’t responded to his texts or calls aside from telling him to give her some space and to _think about what he had done_ (!), Mycroft steadfastly refused to reveal the hold he had kept over Molly, and John was not yet home.

          Needing someone to talk to, someone besides his skull (which was at a lab for forensic reconstruction, following the explosion), someone to bounce ideas off of, Sherlock was anxious for John to return. John might not be an expert on relationships, but he had a wealth of dating experience for Sherlock to draw upon. In the meantime, he was brainstorming ideas and working on his counterpoints to any arguments Molly was likely to present.

          What would be suitable in this instance? Should he apologize? Why should he? He’d simply arranged things so that his best friend—who had been wound so tightly Sherlock had feared an explosion—was presented with an opportunity to experience sexual release with a woman who was trustworthy, warm and not currently looking for commitment. Somehow this made him a bad friend and an even worse boyfriend. Partner. Whatever.

          Sherlock decided he was a bit miffed with Molly for taking the high road. She had been operating off of emotion while he had applied logic _and_ emotion to achieve the optimum result. And it had worked. John had seemed cheerier this week, more relaxed, if somewhat thoughtful. No doubt he was experiencing a pedestrian sense of guilt for sleeping with another woman. Sherlock made a mental note to bring the subject up—which he had heretofore resisted mentioning with an outstanding display of restraint, but had anyone appreciated that? _No_ —and assure John that Mary of all people would understand. She had been a refreshingly practical woman.

          Molly was more emotional; hence her shouting at him on a public street and then storming off. Sherlock rubbed at his chest, trying to will away the tight, panicky feeling he experienced every time he thought of Molly. He missed her. Somehow, although they were only miles apart, he missed her even more keenly than he had while abroad for two years.

          Pulling out his mobile, he called her once again, not expecting her to answer—although he _hoped_ —and so was totally unprepared when she answered. Her hello was hesitant but hearing her voice eased that sick feeling inside him and Sherlock gripped his phone tightly. “Molly,” he sighed, “Thank you for answering.”

          “I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you. That was childish.”

          He smiled, “I’ve been assured by John numerous times that I’m a large infant, so there’s no fear that you’ll ever act as childishly as I. I’m the last one to cast judgement.” He paused, and she was silent. Grimacing, he continued, “I’m sorry…sorry that I made you so angry. I miss you.” His cheeks burned a little at telling her that, exposing himself by admitting weakness. But he was trying, trying harder to be normal. He told her that, “I’m trying to be normal for you, but it’s hard, I’m going to mess it up. A lot. I still don’t think I was wrong for putting Janine in John’s path, but clearly you do, and I—“

          “Sherlock—“ she paused and waited for him to stop rambling. “What do you mean you’re trying to be normal?”

          “You know, do boyfriend things. Behave like ordinary people.”

          “I don’t want you to be ordinary. You’re Sherlock Holmes, you are extraordinary and that’s one of the reasons I love you! You’re normal, you’re a human being with feelings and fears and insecurities, no matter how hard you try to hide them. But you’re not and never will be _ordinary_.” She said the last word with scorn, and his heart warmed.

          He said her name with a catch in his voice, afraid that for a moment he might tear up. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Fear, his heart answered, you’re afraid of losing her. Giving in, he told her that.

          She sounded as if she were crying and trying to hold it together. “We just found each other, I’m not going anywhere.” Sniffling, she cleared her throat, “I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking since the other day, and I realized I wasn’t just upset about John sleeping with Janine because of Mary, but…” Molly went silent and he waited, head bowed, phone pressed so tightly to his ear that it hurt. Finally she continued, “You’ve been different since we became a couple—different from how you were in New Orleans. I realize we aren’t on holiday, but, well, you’ve been distracted, and we haven’t slept together in a few weeks and you just…don’t…seem as, as interested.” She was crying in earnest now and he cursed.

          “Molly! Molly I am coming over right now, don’t hang up.” Forgetting his Belstaff he raced out the door and tumbled down the stairs. In the street he looked about for a cab, and when he saw one at the end of the road, he took off running. The driver looked at him like he was an escaped lunatic, but once Sherlock shoved fifty quid under his nose he stepped on the pedal. They were at Molly’s home in record time, and Sherlock thanked him loudly as he hopped out. She was watching out the window, and opened the door as he approached.

          Her face made it clear she had been crying, but there were no tears at the moment and she was smiling tremulously. “You stayed on the phone with me.”

          “Yes.” Sherlock stepped forward and she moved backward, letting him in, her big brown eyes fixed on him.

          “You paid the driver a ridiculous amount to get here quickly.”

          “Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it and put both hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer. “I’m going to fuck up, Molly, it’s inevitable.” A derisive smile flitted across his face, “Fairly safe to assume I’m never going to be particularly good at diplomacy, but I don’t want to be the reason you cry.” He pulled her into his arms and she folded into him, arms going around his waist. Kissing the top of her head, he murmured, “I’ve caused you tears too often in the past. I’d like to make you happy.”

          “You _do_ ,” she insisted, dropping her head back so she could meet his eyes, “Never meant to imply otherwise. Just…do you…do you really want this? A relationship? With anyone, not just me?”

          “I don’t want anyone else,” he huffed, “I’ve never had interest in a relationship before. As for wanting one…I’m not sure I can do it properly, the way you expect it, I mean.” He gave her a sardonic look, “You know I rarely do anything like other people. I will try, but I have a feeling I’m going to wreck it occasionally.”

          Molly nibbled on her lip, “Were you just acting in New Orleans?”

          “To a certain extent,” Sherlock allowed cautiously, afraid he would set her off. “Not” he hurried on hastily, seeing her hurt eyes and the quiver in her lip, “my feelings for you—that wasn’t playacting—but my _expressing_ of affection in public…that was mostly ‘Greg.’ You’re aware I’m not fond of what you term PDA.” His voice deepened, “I’d prefer to express my affection and desire in private.”

          Her smile drew him in and they kissed;  his heart rate accelerated, his breathing went shallow. With part of his mind—he was still Sherlock Holmes, after all—Sherlock noted the rapidity of Molly’s pulse under his fingers, was aware of the tremor in her limbs, the crowning of her nipples against his chest. “I haven’t lost any attraction to you; it’s just that there have been distractions, work, other people. I’ve never been particularly sexual, Molly, for any number of reasons. You bring it out in me.”

          She regarded him thoughtfully, and he was relieved to see a smile playing around her lips. “So the holiday was our honeymoon then? Hours of shagging and silliness condensed into a few weeks? And now we’re like an established couple, where we don’t always express our desire…but we feel it nonetheless?”

          “Yes,” he said, relieved that she understood, and didn’t seem to be upset. “I don’t want you just for sex, Molly, it is much more than just the physical.” His hands gripped her hips and he pressed himself against her, “Although I _do_ enjoy the physical as well.”

          Her smile was brilliant, her adorable dimples prominent. “I think that is a remarkably healthy attitude. Honestly, I’m a bit proud of us.”

          “Are we alright then?” Sherlock asked in relief.

          “Hmm, I’d say for now, yes. But Sherlock, you need to watch your tendency to take me for granted, _and_ the ways in which you manipulate people.” She frowned sternly, “John included. And I’ll have to work on my issues with self-worth.” Molly shook her head, “We didn’t have sex for a few weeks and I panicked, thinking you had lost interest.” She ducked her head, looking embarrassed, “I should value myself more. It’s sad that I used that as a benchmark for our health as a couple.”

          “This is new for both of us,” He reminded her, nuzzling her neck and breathing deep her unique Molly-smell. His hand drifted down to her bum…now that she had reminded him they hadn’t engaged in sexual activity for three weeks…well, he was feeling distinctly inclined. “Mmm, Ms. Hooper, your posterior is positively delightful.”

          She giggled, and reached behind him to grab onto his rear, “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Holmes.” Her small hand gave him a squeeze, while the other hand brushed the placket of his trousers, “Parts of you are distinctly thrilling.” He growled playfully, swept her into his arms and headed for the sofa, as the bedroom was much, much too far away. In the excitement he forgot to ask her about the secret Mycroft had used to blackmail her.

 

******

 

          Rosie’s head lolled on his shoulder as John gingerly lowered her limp body into her crib. She was out like a light, but experience had led him to believe that she would wake unexpectedly from the slightest provocation. The flat was blessedly silent, and he hoped she was down for the night. Sherlock had texted him earlier, and let him know he was spending the night at Molly’s; John was glad that they had made up, but he was feeling lonely. Once Rosie was settled on her back, he brushed a kiss on her forehead and turned on her nightlight.

          The walls of the alcove where her crib was situated—and the lack of space for his rapidly growing girl was something they were going to have to address sooner or later—were covered with photos of Mary. He didn’t want his daughter to only see her mother in glimpses of photo albums when she was older. The walls depicted pictures of Mary from her social media pages, holiday snaps, slightly blurry pictures he had taken of her on his phone, wedding pictures, shots of them both from their honeymoon. Mary was happy, smiling, in love, and looking at them always sent a pang of remorse and regret through John. Remorse for how he had failed her, for the months he had wasted in anger over the lies about her background; regret that she was dead, that he would never be able to make it up to her for his emotional affair. A searing regret that she wouldn’t get to see their daughter grow up, that Rosamunde would never know the mother she was named for.

          None of those complex and tangled feelings had stopped him from having sex with Janine; they wouldn’t stop him from doing it again, should the opportunity present itself. John had come to the realization over the past several years, that he wasn’t the easy-going good guy he had always considered himself. Forty-five was a bit old to see yourself for the reality of your flaws, but better late than never, as they say. He would need to watch himself, make sure he was clear with Janine about what he wanted, what he was capable of giving her. Honestly, a relationship seemed out of the question; but sex with someone he liked, no pressure, no expectations…that sounded right up his alley.

          “Prick,” he thought about himself, shaking his head at his own thoughts. It was true though.

          Taking the stairs softly back down to the front room, John made himself a cup of tea and settled into his chair, trying to find something on telly. He had texted Janine, apologizing again for missing their planned morning together. No answer yet. Maybe she had decided to wash her hands of him.

          The evening passed quietly, no texts from Janine, and he went to bed at ten, well aware that Rosie would be up early.

 

******

 

          Greg Lestrade was, Mycroft found, quite a phenomenal kisser; normally he himself did not indulge in kissing, finding it both too intimate and also somewhat unsanitary. There was every possibility that after today his stance might have changed on this matter. At least in regards to Gregory. Such soft lips, what a clever tongue, even his white teeth and slightly scruffy chin were stimulating and—oh, oh my.

          “Like that?” Greg asked roughly, pulling away a little from where he had been sucking lightly at Mycroft’s throat just below the open collar of his shirt. The detective’s hands had been touching him, his arms, his hands, his hips. Mycroft had even forgotten his hated and impossible-to-exercise-away-entirely pudge when Greg touched him.

          It took two tries to clear his throat sufficiently so that he could speak and sound like his normal cool self. Only, somehow, he sounded a bit husky and without his quite realizing when it had happened, his hands were on the other man’s solid, muscled, ever so slightly soft upper body. Gregory was so _warm_ , so vital, so alive in every molecule of his being, like a magnificently spirited animal; it was a miracle he didn’t move around London with a pack of needy lovers trailing him. “Yes,” Mycroft finally said, and flinched at how prim, how removed from emotion his response sounded to his own ears. “Very much,” he tried again, consciously injecting more warmth and enthusiasm into his voice, and was rewarded by the older man’s happy grin.

          The charged atmosphere at the graveyard had proven too much, and they only picked at their food, until finally Greg suggested they “pack it in and go back to mine, where we can talk.” Talk they had, although it had at times been mostly Lestrade, Mycroft feeling too diffident about his feelings to reveal much at first. With a bit of effort they managed to come to rest on the same page: it would be practically secret, it would be difficult, it would be limited as to the time Mycroft might be able to give it, but they were going to give a relationship a go.

          After Mycroft laid out—very precisely, unemotionally and steadily—all the reasons why the he would be terrible at being in a relationship, Greg had refuted it by pointing out that they were all theories, as—Mycroft had admitted himself—he had never been in a relationship. “Besides,” Greg grimaced, “on paper my ex and I had everything in common and should have made a go of it, yet look how that turned out. Sometimes, Myc, you have to trust your gut and to hell with the facts.”

          Deciding that he might as well begin as he meant to go on, Mycroft had asked, as politely as he knew how, for him to never again call him Myc.  This had led to a playful (on Greg’s part) debate about just what nicknames were acceptable. Smiling inside, Mycroft had even begun to have fun (Gregory was just such _fun_ ), and when he was caught with an actual smile on his face, Greg had leapt on him and pinned him against the sofa back and their first kiss had been born in on laughter.

          _Ridiculous to spend an hour tussling, and, Dear Lord_ , necking _at your age_ , Mycroft berated himself as he made his way back home. A flash of self-consciousness overwhelmed him, and he worried that Greg would find him laughably unprepared for a relationship. What did he know of social interaction? His strengths were intimidation, manipulation, information gathering, the delicate application of pressure; Mycroft had no play in him, no lightness. They had nothing in common, aside from trying to keep Sherlock from self-imploding, policing the populace, and a love of old detective films.

          He was hardly going to join Gregory at his bowls club. The stuffy, suspicious atmosphere of the Diogenes would do little to ease any strain between them. How would they spend their time?

          A lightening memory of Greg straddling his lap and kissing him breathless came to him, and Mycroft bit back a moan. Possibly there would be one or two ways to pass the time. And they did share a similar and complimentary taste in movies. They had enjoyed a good discussion about political and law-keeping history at the pub the last time they met. Greg made him laugh. Don’t borrow trouble, his mother used to tell him. Before he had always sneered at her simple wisdoms, but suddenly he found comfort in the thought. After all, Sherlock had found a unique brand of happiness with Molly Hooper; perhaps Mycroft could forge his own.


	9. Mending the Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his sometimes-reluctant willingness to be distracted by the charms of one Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes is as single minded as ever when it comes to a mystery. He's determined to finally unearth Molly's secret and find out just what hold his brother had over her. John and Sherlock have a discussion about said charms. Mycroft tries to navigate the uncharted territory of a relationship, while worrying that he is both emotionally and physically unprepared to offer Greg what he needs...could the Ice Man be in danger of cracking? And what will happen if he does? Taking a chance, John is honest with Janine about what he's looking for; her response is unexpected and her demand might force him to have an uncomfortable conversation with Mrs. Hudson. Molly dreads the fallout of revealing her secret to Sherlock; after all, even he might not be able to accept the truth she has so carefully kept hidden.

          “Dimples, John. They are a mighty weapon.”

          Barely glancing up from his paper—he was used to the other man’s non-sequiturs, the doctor lifted an inquiring brow, “Mm?”

          “Yes, specifically Venusian dimples.”

          A sudden understanding lit John’s face, and he smirked behind his broadsheet, “Talking about anyone in particular, are we?”

          Sherlock, who had been perched rather like a cumbersome bird of prey in the windowsill, smoking a cigarette, turned his head to regard John. “Molly Hooper. She has only to smile, and her dimples compel me to agree to the most ridiculous of activities. But her dimples of Venus are particularly dangerous. When she walks away from me…” Sherlock’s changeable eyes went out of focus for a moment, and he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, “I understand now why kings have toppled thrones for a woman. Even clothed I know they are present, and I find it distressingly difficult to think about anything else.”

          John masterfully controlled the urge to cackle with laughter, “You’re only human, Sherlock. Biologically speaking, sex is a powerful tool.”

          “Or a dangerous and unpredictable weapon,” Sherlock said darkly.

          John gave up reading the news as a lost cause, and focused on his friend, “Has Molly learned to weaponize her charms?”

          “She might as well have done.” Sherlock flicked his butt out the window and watched the tiny ember tumble to the pavement below. “I seem to have agreed to accompany her to a _wedding_.” He said the word as if he were talking about a particularly poisonous plant that he was being asked to consume.

          Scrubbing a hand vigorously over his jaw, John tried to hide a grin. “Well, as long as it doesn’t go like the last one you both attended…” Despite the memories of Mary this brought up, he found he wanted to laugh, if only because Sherlock was acting so tragic. He supposed thirty-eight was late in life for someone who prided themselves on their self-control, to learn that they were but putty in the hands of a pint-sized woman with a love for cats and colorful jumpers. “Besides, there’ll be dancing; you like to dance.”

          Brightening visibly, Sherlock stepped onto the messy top of his desk and leapt lightly to the floor. John had the distinct impression that he just managed to restrain himself from pirouetting. “Yes, there is that.” His eyes unfocused again and John would have bet fifty quid that the younger man was picturing Molly in a dress. Or possibly out of it.

          “Just how appealing are these dimples?” John wondered aloud. Sherlock answered absently, “Phenomenal, John. Molly is exceedingly—“ breaking off, he threw his friend an appalled look. “Stop! I forbid you to think about Molly’s dimples or what her naked form looks like!” Scowling, he threw himself on the couch, and sent a black look at the ceiling. “Oh Gawwwd, I’m _jealous_.”

          “It’s natural.”

          “Not for me it isn’t!”

          “Oh please.” At the other man’s surprised look, “This isn’t something new, Sherlock,” John shook his head, “Else why were you always trying to sabotage Molly’s relationships?”

          That earned him a sneer, “I did no such thing!”

          “Oh? Ahem. ‘Jim from IT’ you tried to out as gay. And of course DI Dimmock, who has such a crush on her…I seem to recall that you “let it slip” that he had a severe addiction to pornography—which is untrue. Oh, and that pudgy bloke from hospital admin—what did you tell her about him when she mentioned he’d asked her out?” John remembered perfectly well what Sherlock had to say about the fellow in question.

          “He looked like a flabby mushroom and he had about as much personality,” Sherlock growled, clutching his curls. “God! Molly has dreadful taste in men.”

          _Not touching that one_ , John thought.

          “And there was Meat Dagger,” Sherlock spat, anger darkening his brow as he thought of his doppelganger, Molly’s erstwhile fiancé. “What an idiot he was, I don’t know what she saw in him. Eugh, and before you met her, there was this drip from America; he thought he was _so cool_ because he wore these ironic t-shirts and a fedora all the time. He called her _Molly-dolly_.” Sherlock actually gagged a little.

          John’s jaw quivered as he clenched down on the urge to let loose a laugh. “What happened to him?”

          Sherlock smiled nastily, “I informed her that he was sleeping with her flatmate _and_ her flatmate’s brother and that was the end of him.”

          Poor Molly, John reflected, small wonder she had displayed so little self-confidence around Sherlock when John first met her. It was a miracle that her feelings for Sherlock had survived his arsehole tendencies. It was a miracle that she hadn’t sworn off of men entirely.

          Sherlock had fallen into a black study, and John went back to his paper.

 

******

 

          “Molly?”

          She looked up from her autopsy, peering at Sherlock through her face shield, “What is it, dear? Only, I’m rather busy at the moment…”

          This rather surprisingly won her a smile, “Of course you are; you have a higher work load than anyone else in your department. They all know you’re the best, and they give you all the harder cases as a result. Molly Hooper is a byword for quality at Bart’s.”

          Raising her brows, Molly lowered her scalpel and regarded her smiling boyfriend with some degree of suspicion. “Not that I don’t appreciate being told how brilliant I am, but erm, what do you need this time?”

          His crestfallen expression would have felled her a few years ago; however, Molly was hardened to his manipulative ways now. Well, mostly. “What makes you think—“ Reading her expression, he dropped the innocent act with a sigh. “I do need something, but it won’t take up much of your time. Just quickly answer one small question and I’m out of your hair for the rest of the day.” He smiled sweetly.

          “Quickly then, please, I have two more PMs to do after this, and loads of paperwork. Plus, one of the lab techs is out sick today, so I’ll have to do all my own post-work and sterilization.”

          “Not sick,” Sherlock said automatically, unable to help himself, “She’s met someone new and is currently at home in bed with this woman. She’s a serial playgirl, this is the same reason she was absent three times already this quarter.”

          Molly made a mental note to have a stern talk with Linda about expectations for attendance, and leaving one’s personal life at home. “Noted, thank you.”

          “Yes. Well, I just wanted to point out that I have graciously agreed to attend your friend’s wedding with you—“ Not _that_ graciously, Molly thought in exasperation. “—and I wanted to ask a small favour in return.” Sherlock smiled ingratiatingly, “That’s what couples do, isn’t it? Compromise?”

          Uh oh. “Yes,” Molly agreed cautiously.

          “Excellent. Well, as I say, I have a small favour to ask. Very simple, all I want is to know what secret you’re harbouring that Mycroft used to blackmail you—“

          Molly dropped the scalpel with a clatter, and felt her head swim as panic swept over her. Oh no, nononono, not this. Dear God, not this and not _here_. She thought he had given up on this…clearly not.

          Her face must have reflected her panic attack, as Sherlock’s expression registered alarm, and he leapt to her side, holding her tightly despite her unsanitary paper smock. “Sit down,” he ordered, leading her to a stool and unceremoniously bundling her onto it. He pulled off her face shield and used a latex glove to pull off her blood-streaked pair.

          “Are you alright?” He asked after a few minutes. The answer wasn’t really positive, but Molly nodded anyway, and was grateful that he didn’t push his advantage. Instead he let her rest her forehead against his collarbone and patted her arms and back. “Clearly this isn’t something you’re willing to talk about here,” Sherlock said after a few minutes, “But I’d say your reaction warrants a discussion. Please, Molly,” he whispered, “I want to help you.” His voice fractured, “If Mary had come to me sooner I might have been able to stop—“

          Touched at the emotion he was displaying, heart breaking a little at how clearly he mourned not being able to save Mary, she looked up and cupped his jaw in her hands, “It—I, oh God, I really can’t talk about this here, and I _really_ don’t want you to know at all…but I know you, you aren’t going to give up on this, are you?” Despite her anxiety, Molly was touched that he was not only this worried about her, but that he wasn’t pressing his advantage. The old Sherlock would have used her shock and disorientation against her to pry the secret out.

          “No. Not if it scares you this much. I want to help.” Sherlock kissed her ear, whispered in it, “I’ll solve it, whatever it is. You must know that, Molly.”

          She gulped back a tearful laugh, “There isn’t anything to solve…but…oh God, yes, I’ll tell you.” Looking up in alarm, “But not here, not now. Are you free tonight?”

          “Unless I get a case that’s a seven or higher.” Sherlock peered into her eyes, “Make that a nine or higher.”

          “Come to mine then, sevenish. I’ll tell you everything.”

         

******

 

          It had been weeks since the day John was to have spent the morning with Janine. Having been called unexpectedly into work, he had not found time to text her for several hours, and by that time she appeared to have been irreversibly annoyed with him, as it took two days for her to respond. Even then, her response seemed subdued.

          Every time he tried to make plans with her, Janine found a reason to delay. It wasn’t just the sexual need, he did genuinely enjoy her company, and he wanted to see her again; her company was always light-hearted, stimulating and a welcome dose of reality in the maelstrom that life at 221B could be. He also wanted to make up for his shitty behavior. And shag like rabbits, if the opportunity presented itself.

          Finally she agreed to see him, and to ensure he had the privacy to apologize (and to shag), John picked the night Sherlock was going to take dinner to Molly’s and spend the night  (“Unless my deductions are incorrect and she sends me packing, but I am fairly confident, John, that I will not return home tonight.”). He further cleared the field by asking Harry to watch Rosie. Mrs. Hudson would be off visiting her sister, so John hoped to have the house to himself. If he were very, very lucky Janine would graciously accept his apology, and then ride him in his chair. And possibly on the windowsill of his bedroom. Or the stairs, if they couldn’t make it that far.

          Adjusting himself, John tried to practice patience. The flat was clean, or mostly so, and he had the makings for a simple pasta dinner, if she stayed long enough, and had assembled the ingredients for breakfast, in case he were really lucky and she stayed the night. The thought of waking up next to her was too much, and when the doorbell chimed, John cursed his erection. Talk about timing.

          Hobbling down the stairs, he opened the door and smiled, “Janine! You look amazing, come in.” He stepped back, holding the door, and she walked past in her electric blue wrap dress, her dark hair loose over one shoulder. Clocking his erection with one glance, she smiled at him, dark eyes sardonic, “I see you’re happy to see me, Johnny.”

          He hated being called Johnny. It reminded him too much of his childhood, his mum’s ineffective, whining voice, and his dad’s drunken bellows. But God, when she spoke it, somehow it sounded different. He liked her light-hearted ways, her easy-going manner; the flirtatiousness that ran through her voice like a streak of white in dark marble. Fuck, she was sexy.

          “Unable to help myself, when it comes to you.” He took a chance and kissed her, and while her response was warm, he sensed she was holding back. He gestured her up the stairs ahead of him and into the flat, offering her wine or tea.

          “Neither, thanks.” Taking a seat in Sherlock’s chair, she put her clutch on the table. “You said you wanted to talk to me?”

          Ah, so they were going to be a bit formal then. Get right to it. Good. Great. Right.

          “Sorry I missed our last meeting,” John said, cracking his knuckles. “Like I said, I was called into work unexpectedly—no excuse for not letting you know sooner, but still, I am sorry.”

          She waved a hand, “You already explained that in your voice mail. And several texts.” Janine sighed, “You’re acting like a boyfriend who messed up. WE had a fling, John.” Inspecting her perfectly manicured nails, Janine was silent for a moment, then looked at him, direct and challenging as always, “What are we doing here? Are we friends who shag? Are you looking for a relationship?” Apparently he didn’t have as good a control over his facial expression as he thought, because her lips quirked, “No need to panic, Johnny.”

          “God, I’m rubbish at this sort of thing.” John sighed and wished that women had sex like men; why did there always have to be a discussion of feelings and the future and what they both wanted? “Look, Janine, I really like you—I mean it, I enjoy your company—immensely. You make me laugh…you drive me crazy with lust. But, eh, I just don’t think I’m cut out for a relationship. Especially not with a daughter to raise, a full time job...my work with Sherlock.” What a dick he was, using his daughter as an excuse for not wanting monogamy. Sherlock, he had no compunction about using. “For one thing, I just don’t have the time to properly maintain a relationship.”

          “So…just sex then?” Her tone was hard to judge, but he thought perhaps she wasn’t angry or put off. That expression gave nothing away. She’d make a good gambler.

          John took a chance, “Well, not just sex, because we’re friends, and I’d like to hang out when we both have some free time. But yeah…that’s really all I want, getting to see you from time to time, no expectations, and a bloody amazing shag when you want it. If you want it.”

          Although Janine’s response wasn’t all that long in coming, John’s anxiety over the potential for how badly he might have misjudged made time stretch out. Finally she spoke thoughtfully, “There was, only two years ago—God, is that all it was?—a time when I was looking for a serious boyfriend, hoping to get married. But the whole mess with Sherlock,” her lips twisted ruefully, “it opened my eyes. Made me see that maybe that wasn’t what I wanted, at least for now.”

          Running a hand through her hair, Janine licked her lips and his thinking skipped a beat. “I’m still young, barely thirty, not in a real hurry anymore. I’ve been dating, enjoying the experience, not worrying about the future, and it’s been great.” She raised a brow challengingly, “You aren’t the only one, y’know? I’ve seen other men. I’ll continue to see them. Not to have sex with all of them, but when I want to. No strings. I don’t have time in my life for lies or jealousy or drama.”

          John held his breath before finally speaking, “So what are you saying?”

          “I’d like an…open relationship with you, if you will. Still friends, but friends who have sex. No labels. You see other people if you want, and I see other people. If it’s too difficult, or if one of us finds ourselves falling for someone who isn’t into that, we can go back to being just friends.”

          “Will that work, do you think?” _What are you questioning this for?!_ John wanted to kick himself. She was offering him exactly what he needed, what he wanted, and he was mucking it up.

          “We won’t know unless we try.” Janine’s gaze hardened a bit, “But if we’re going to do it, one or both of us has to speak with the gorgon downstairs.”

          John was momentarily confused, and then the penny dropped, “Mrs. Hudson? Why, what are you talking about?”

          “I like her, I do. Or did. She was perfectly lovely to me whenever I was dating Sherlock.” Janine’s eyes narrowed, “But the day you and I had plans, I showed up before you sent me that text letting me know plans had changed, and she basically barred me entrance. It’s clear she has an issue with me and you seeing one another. We need to fix that. I don’t want her throwing up roadblocks every time I show up at the door.”

          “I’ll talk to her,” John promised, “She’s lovely, really, just…extremely loyal. I think maybe she has a problem with how things ended between you and Sherlock.”

          That earned him an inelegant snort, “Oh bollocks! He forgave me and I forgave him and I don’t see what business it is of hers.”

          “Eh…Mrs. Hudson is protective of Sherlock, always has been. They go back. I think she thinks of him almost as a son. We’ll get her on your side.” John smiled with intent, “After all, how can anyone resist you?”

          Gleaming eyes told him that not only had his intent landed, and been well-received, but also that she knew he was trying to beguile her into an agreeable mood. “ _You_ seem to be.”

          “Only because I’m a man of great restrain,” John lied, remembering his plans for the chair, the windowsill, the stairs. Hell, the rug would do at this point.

          “Unleash that restraint,” Janine purred, standing and unfastening her belt with maddening slowness, letting her dress fall open to reveal that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath except for thigh high stockings and a pair of silky tap pants. _God bless her_ , John thought happily. Negotiations were over, it would appear.

          He stood up, taking off his clothes slowly, smiling at her the while; he wasn’t used to restraint, normally he liked to rip off his clothes and dive right in. But he was taking a new approach to sex now, so he might as well experiment with delayed gratification.

          “I’ve got this fantasy of doing it in this chair,” he told her, sitting back down and putting his arms along the arm rests. He was completely nude and more than ready. The invitation was clear.

          Shrugging off her dress, Janine slid her thumbs under the elastic waist of her pants, lowered them to her hips and shimmied them down her body. It was a mesmerizing sight. Stepping carefully out of her pants, Janine strutted across the space between them, in nothing but stockings and heels, and planted her left knee on the outside of his thigh.

          Eagerly his hands landed on her hips, wanting to draw her closer, but Janine captured his wrists in her hands and guided his hands back to the arm rests. Leaning in to bite his lower lip, she slipped her right leg between his and reached down to lightly caress him. She murmured in a husky voice, “Ever hear of a reverse cowgirl?”

          “Yeehaw,” John said fervently.

 

******

 

          “I’ve never been particularly fond of Westerns,” Mycroft commented, his eyes on the screen; he reached out and took a cautious handful of buttery popcorn from the bowl on Gregory’s lap. Really, given how much he had been persuaded to eat at dinner, popcorn was the last thing he needed. At this point he would have to double his time on the treadmill, and abstain from lunch for the next week. “But this is quite humorous.”

          “I thought you might enjoy it,” Greg said, taking a giant handful of popcorn and shoving it in his mouth. It really, thought Mycroft, should not have looked as sexy as it did. But there was such an appealingly rapacious quality about Greg Lestrade. They were watching _Maverick_ , with James Garner and Mel Gibson, and the film was entertaining, amusing and enjoyable…three things Mycroft normally didn’t experience.

          Dating Greg was a novel experience, not the least because of the level of secrecy they employed. Most of their “dates” consisted of dinner and a movie at one of their homes, the occasional “accidental” meeting at a pub (where Mycroft maintained a dignity, decorum and distance that he found comforting but which he knew frustrated the affectionate Greg), and one or two rare walks in the park (when it was pouring rain and most sensible people were inside).

          Mycroft was, more than he might have envisioned, liking the experience, but he feared that Greg found the lack of openness too constricting. So far they had indulged in a certain degree of physical closeness, but they had not yet, so to speak, _gone all the way_.

          Mycroft found this in equal parts divine and horrendous. Withholding from pleasure in Greg’s arms seemed wrong, and yet he was able to appreciate, from an aesthetic standpoint, the exquisite pleasure-pain of denying themselves release as the tension built. It was more than that, however, if Mycroft were being honest with himself—something he prided himself on—it was that he dreaded letting Greg down with his own performance, which he suspected might be lacking. After all, his previous experiences had been with paid partners, who were there to not only ensure a pleasurable experience, but to make the payee feel like a skilled lover. How was he to know if he were genuinely any good?

          There was not, as far as he considered it, any reason to participate in a physical expression of an, oh Lord, emotional connection, unless he performed at the optimum level. And also…if he became accustomed to a physical relationship with someone he…admired…and then this ended badly, Mycroft suspected he would find it difficult to recover from.

          There was a reason he had remained single. Caring was _definitely_ not an advantage. Not when it could devastate you emotionally. How could he remain the Ice Man if he was in danger of cracking?

 

******

 

          “God, three times,” Janine sighed, crawling onto the bed. She collapsed on her face and John stopped to admire her gorgeous heart shaped arse before he joined her. They had tested the stability of his old chair in a thoroughly satisfying manner, had a bit of a cuddle, refreshed themselves with tea drunk in the nude—the Queen definitely wouldn’t have approved— and made it halfway up the stairs before John, mesmerized by the sway of Janine’s hips as she preceded him up the flight, instigated round two. He’d never think of that seventh step the same again, John thought fondly, remembering the frantic squeaking of the old wood under his arse.

          In the bedroom they had had a light doze, fooled around, then fooled around with intent, and midway through an extremely athletic bout of sex, switched from the end of the bed to the broad windowsill. From here he could see clearly Janine’s palm prints on the glass, and he thought with a swelling sense of pride of how her screams had echoed through the room as she came yet again. “Three times for me, and what? Twelve for you?”

          “I lost count after orgasm number seventeen,” Janine grinned wickedly, “You’re brilliant. Insatiable. I’ve never known a man your age to be so ready to go.”

          “A man my age?” John frowned, insulted and annoyed. Sure, he was fifteen years older than Janine, but she needn’t make it sound like he was a pensioner.

          She laughed merrily, “Don’t look so insulted, Johnny. It was a compliment. Usually men in their forties need more recovery time. Clearly you are the exception to the rule.” As he pressed up against her side and she felt his erection rutting her hip her eyes widened comically, “Seriously? Again!? Are you taking little blue pills or some’at?”

          “It’s all me,” John growled, licking her collarbone, and smoothing a hand over her belly, down to her bare sex, “Ah, Christ, you’re still so wet.”

          “Honestly, I don’t know if I can come again,” she sighed, as his fingers delicately plumbed her, “I’m getting tender. I think you wore out my quota for the day.”

          “Oh yeah?” John lifted the sheet and slid down, kissing his way down her side. As he made his intent clear, her thighs spread automatically, even as she sighed and warned him it wasn’t likely to happen again. “Seriously, Johnny, I don’t think—ah!—I’ll come again. You’re wasting your time.”

          His head popped back up and he met her eye, “It’s not a waste of time if it makes you feel good. Besides, I love it. Especially when your pussy smells of sex.” John took an exaggerated sniff of her, nudged her lips with his nose, teased her slit with his tongue. A tiny whimper made him smile, even as he delved deeper. The application of his fingers proved too stimulating, and he backed off, laving her softly with his tongue, caressing her swollen clit with gentle passes of his lips.

          “Ahh, Johnny…ahh, God, yeah. Ohhhh.” Janine’s fingers twined through his hair, tugged, pulled, directed him, “Yeah, there, just there! Oh, bless, that feels…oh God, Johnny, yeah, oh please, oh please…softer, mmm, yes, yes that’s so lovely.” John settled in happily, not in any hurry.

          As her skin fluttered and pulsed against his tongue, John hummed in delight. This might be a chore or a case of “let me get this over with and get my own” for a lot of blokes, but he loved it.

          Janine’s breathing deepened and her grip tightened as the orgasm she had doubted she was capable of approached. “ _Fuck, God, yes, right there, love_. Ahh!” She moaned louder, her legs stiffening, her hips arching off the bed and John used broad, firm strokes of his tongue to press her over the edge, and was rewarded by the sudden frantic bucking of her hips as she wildly rubbed her pussy on his face, sobbing. Her cries broke off and a thin, keening cry split the silence of the room and Janine fell apart, shuddering, as her pussy gushed her release.

          John spent his time licking her clean, nuzzling her with his lips, tongue and nose. She smelled amazing, tasted even better, and he loved that she wasn’t self-conscious about sex or her body.

          Eventually, he lay down next to her, and she rolled her head on the pillow to face him, “Jesus,” she said, her words coming slowly, slightly slurred, sounding almost drunk, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

          His grin threatened to split his face, “Oh yeah?”

          “I could get addicted to you,” Janine said, tracing his pectorals, “You’re seriously phenomenal. I feel bad, though…I’m pretty sure I can’t move, and you’re still—“

          John kissed her, and pulled back, “Not to sound too new-age and self-sacrificing, but don’t worry about me.”

          “What are you going to do with that, then?” Janine peeked at him under the sheet, and then looked up, meeting his eyes, her expression mischievous, “Seems a shame to waste it.”

          “I can take care of it myself if I need,” John began. But she stopped that by the simple expedient of wrapping her hand around him. “Ahh…” he let his head fall back and smiled at the ceiling. “Although, if you have it in you, your hand feels even better…”

 

******

 

          Normally—say, when it didn’t involve his girlfriend—Sherlock was single minded about solving a mystery (bloody minded, John had termed it more than once). Sniffing out the truth was second-nature to him, and he had been known to be ruthless in his pursuit. Now, as much as he wanted to know what Molly was so terrified of, and as surprisingly strong as his desire was to fix it, Sherlock found himself in the awkward position of having to put his role as a boyfriend ahead of his job as a detective.

          It would be easier if he could just bully or trick Molly into confessing and fast-track it toward a solution.

          But two years, a lot of emotional growth, and one small, pink-eyed and worried girlfriend had effectively cut him off at the knees. He was stumbling in the dark. He was…mixing his metaphors. Although, if you thought about it, having no legs below the knees would indeed cause stumbling. No, stop it. Now was not the time to go into what John had termed his Asperger’s mode, when he got lost in the path of his own thoughts.

          Faced with Molly, who had clearly been crying since their encounter earlier that day at Bart’s, Sherlock was forced to tread lightly. Reminding himself that he shouldn’t loom or look threatening, Sherlock sat on the couch and pulled her to him with one arm, taking her other hand in his. “You’ve been crying again.”

          “I’ve felt like throwing up for hours,” Molly confessed. Her voice was small, and she was clutching a damp and crumpled tissue. Sherlock grimaced and pulled out his own immaculate linen handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. She passed him her used tissue and he just barely managed not to cast it from him in disgust. Gingerly setting it on the end table, he patted her back while she sniveled into his once clean handkerchief. Being in a relationship seemed to involve a lot of crying. Perhaps that was just him.

          “Is it that bad?” Surely Molly Hooper had done nothing so horrific as to warrant this amount of worry? And yet…his insight into what humans were capable of had shown him dark deeds aplenty. _But not Molly_ , his mind whispered, _she’s not like that_. He hoped that were true. And then in a moment of clarity, Sherlock realized that whatever it was, he didn’t care. It wouldn’t change his feelings for her. An impulse told him to share that fact with her, and he did. At his words she looked at him desperately, gulped back more tears, and said, “I hope that’s true.”

          Not a promising beginning. _Damn_ Mycroft for his machinations. Damn his own curiosity. “Just tell me, Molly. I assure you, whatever it is, I’ve heard worse. And whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

          “You can’t fix it,” she told him, her voice hoarse, “It isn’t that kind of problem.”       

          _I doubt it_ , he thought arrogantly.

          After a long silence, through which he twitched with barely-veiled impatience, Molly finally spoke again, her voice thick with impending tears, “’member how I told you about my dad? About how he was s-sick?”

          “Of course I remember.” Hang on, that was probably wrong, no doubt he should have been warmer, said something about how sorry he was—oh, too late, she was speaking again.

          “He was…it was—it was just awful, Sherlock, really, properly _awful_. He had ALS, and it was, it was just consuming, him—who he was, who he had been. A doctor said one time that the cruelest thing about ALS was that it took a person’s future and stunted it, twisted it and drew out the torment.” She took a deep, wheezy breath, “I meant what I told you before, he was _so_ courageous and so cheerful, all the time, any time there was someone with him. But I saw him, how he was when he thought he was alone—“

          “You helped him die.” Of course. _Of course_ , how could he not have seen it before?

          She flinched, and he cursed silently, regretting his bald words. “I’m sorry, Molly, I didn’t mean—“

          Shaking her head, she met his eyes, tried bravely to smile through the tears that fell like a summer rain, “No—it, it’s alright. I mean, it’s not alright…it won’t ever be alright. My dad, my lovely, brave, funny, wonderful dad is dead.” Molly’s already thin voice cracked painfully and a harsh sob followed, but she struggled on. “He—I lost him when I was twenty. I was in medical school then—looking for answers, I suppose, and I knew he didn’t have long—knew what was coming.” She broke down, and Sherlock held her and made soft noises and wished that he were better at being human.

          After a while, her strangled tears stuttered to an end, and she blew her nose, struggled for the composure to continue. “Someone—someone helped me, they got me what I needed.” Molly met his eyes, looking fiercely at him, into him, “I’ll never, ever, under pain of death tell anyone, not even you, who it was—their part is done and they should be left in peace. That’s all I wanted to give him, my dad, peace.” Molly sobbed, breaking again, and Sherlock held her while she cried so hard that each sob sounded like it was torn from her.

          It had been a long time since he had felt so useless, so helpless. There was nothing about him that was equipped to help Molly. Suddenly remembering John falling apart in his arms, not unlike this, reminded him of the awkward conversation they had after. John had somewhat diffidently thanked him, turned away to save face, then abruptly swung back and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Thank you,” he had said hoarsely, “for being there.” Maybe all that he could do for Molly was to be there. Maybe that was all anyone needed—not to feel alone.

          A long time later she lifted her head and looked at him, a dull sort of fear underlying the exhaustion and the state of emotional turmoil she was undergoing, “It wasn’t murder, it was a release, and one he wanted. But its—“ She shook her head, unable to go on.

          “You helped someone you loved, Molly,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, because he was ill-equipped when it came to emotions, and because he feared she was on the edge of a total collapse into emotional devastation, and for the moment he needed her to be able to focus on him. Consciously, he softened his voice, “Mycroft will never reveal your secret—he wouldn’t even tell _me_! He held it over you, and he and I—“ Sherlock’s voice went cold, “—we _will_ be having words about it. But it is your secret and is rests safe with the Holmes brothers. I give you my word.”

          She nodded, but she was twisting his handkerchief in her hands and looking not at all reassured. Sherlock didn’t know what to say…he couldn’t “fix” this for her, and knowing that her secret would remain thus didn’t seem to have—ah. “Molly, are you, perhaps, fearing my judgement?”

          A reluctant nod; unable to meet his eyes. “Might I remind you, Molly, that I shot and killed a man scarcely one year back?” Her head jerked up, shocked, as if she had forgotten that. Sherlock smiled at her, and her expression lightened slightly, “It wasn’t a mercy—well, not for him anyway—it was outright murder. I deemed it best, and I got away with it, barely, but it was murder nonetheless.” He followed his instincts and dipped his head, kissing her lightly, and then pressing his forehead to hers.

          Lowering his voice until he was almost whispering, Sherlock drove home his point, “All that to say, Molly, that I’m hardly in a position to judge you.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her cheek, kissed her, tasting her tears, “And even if I were…I would not.”

          He pulled back, smiled into her relieved and disbelieving eyes, “Molly Hooper, my brave Molly Hooper…you did what you always do…you acted out of love.”


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have come to the end of our tale, and this is just a short epilogue wrapping up Molly and Sherlock's journey.

_Two Years Later…_

          Sherlock and Mycroft ducked out the door into the garden and held their breath as Mummy’s heels tapped past and they heard her voice raised inquiringly. Once she was gone they exhaled and then immediately glanced at one another to gauge if the other was planning a snide comment.

          “Cigarette?” Mycroft offered, holding out the pack of Silk Cut and flicking his gold lighter invitingly.

          “Low tar,” Sherlock rumbled disparagingly, but nevertheless sucked greedily, inhaling the smoke.

          “You can’t avoid her forever,” Mycroft commented, tipping his head back and looking up at the mass of stars overhead. He had been drinking whiskey and was aware of a pleasant buzz; once he convinced Sherlock to dance with their mother he was planning on going back in the reception hall and asking Gregory to dance. The man was utterly delicious in his tuxedo and if Mycroft left him for too long he was liable to be swamped in offers both innocent and lascivious. “It is your wedding after all. Dancing with one’s mother is tradition.”

          Sherlock grunted grumpily and stuck his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his impeccably tailored tux. “The only person I want to dance with is Molly.”

          “You’re not a child, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, and savored the last inhale of smoke; he was down to one a day and while he recognized the health benefits of stopping, he also enjoyed his daily indulgence. “Besides, Molly is the sentimental type, she won’t let you miss out on it, and she will no doubt be very affectionate from an excess of emotion.”

          “When you put it like that…” Sherlock threw down his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. “Once more into the breach!”

          Mycroft disposed of both their butts and followed his brother inside.

 

******

 

          “This has all been so…civilized,” Molly commented to John, swaying in his arms, “No murder, no mystery, no sudden explosions. I keep waiting for something unexpected to happen.”

          John grinned at her, “You’re married to Sherlock Holmes now, Molly, I’m sure you know he’ll manage to surprise you even if no one dies.”

          “I must be mad,” she said cheerfully, and he twirled her until she laughed.

          “Utterly!” John agreed, “That’s the only explanation.”

          “That and I love him,” her expression went all soft and loving and John gave her an affectionate hug.

          “I never thought I’d see a time when Sherlock was capable of—well, of everything.” John waved at Rosie, who was doing an energetic “dance” at the edge of the dance floor, the puffy skirts of her flower girl’s dress twirling around her chubby legs. Mrs. Hudson applauded and Rosie crowed with laughter. “A lot has changed since the day I first met him—and you.”

          Molly regarded him with big eyes, “John, are you sure you’re okay with this? Me moving into 221B? It changes your dynamic.”

          “I’ll still come round,” John assured her, “Probably far more than you’re comfortable with. Sherlock and I will still be partners and we’ll still go on mad adventures and there will probably be times when you resent the hell out of it.”

          “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Molly said thoughtfully. “I have considered it and—well, I think I’m okay with the idea of it, even if I don’t know how the reality of the mad hours and the moody silences will actually be to live with.”

          “He’s gotten better, the last few years; you, Sherrinford, all of it has changed him and he’s more approachable now,” John assured her, “And he knows what he has to lose if he takes you for granted.”

          Molly beamed at him as their dance came to an end, “I’ve got a system all worked out for how to get back at him if he starts treating me like a piece of furniture. I’ve devised various devious ways to keep him in line.”

          John bellowed with laughter and the two of them giggled until Molly waved her hands helplessly, “John, John! Stop giggling, people are going to think we’re mad.”

          They brought themselves under control just as the next song started, a slow waltz which John politely begged off from, and Molly, just about to accept an offer from Mike Stamford, saw with pleasure that her new husband was about to take the floor with his mother.

 

******

 

          “Sherlock, I know you think I’m a silly old woman,” Mummy began, and he barely refrained from groaning. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, young man! As I was saying, I know you think your father and I are old fools, but we have been _happily_ married for fifty-four years and I want to tell you something.” Mummy’s blue eyes were still capable of pinning him in place.

          “What is that, Mummy?” Sherlock was polite, but hardly listening.

          “Just remember, no matter how intelligent you consider yourself, you have to have heart to make a marriage work.” Mummy patted his back, “You have that, even if you have spent most of your life denying it. I just want you to remember that the heart is equally as important. And sex, of course but I understand from Molly that—“

          “MUMMY!” Sherlock stopped dancing and covered his ears, “Stop. NOW.”

          She laughed and pulled on his arms, uncovering his ears and resuming their dance. “Darling boy, you’re so modest sometimes. I can’t imagine where you and your brother got that from—certainly not your father or I.”

 

******

 

          Greg joined Siger Holmes at the edge of the dance floor and handed him a lager, “There ya are, Siger. Cheers.”

          His boyfriend’s father raised his glass, “Cheers, dear boy. Ah, that is refreshing! Violet loves to dance and I’m quite worn out.”

          “Must be where My gets it from,” Greg commented, sipping his drink. “He’s a champion dancer.”

          Siger smiled at him, “I’ve never seen him so happy, Greg, and I just want you to know Violet and I are thrilled with your relationship. He’s—well, for the first time since he was a small boy, he’s happy and he gets out and enjoys life. He doesn’t just sit in his gloomy house and brood. This is a truly wonderful day for us, seeing both our lads so well matched.”

          Greg coloured, and had to clear his throat, “Thanks, Siger,” he said huskily, “It goes both ways though, y’know? He makes _me_ incredibly happy.” Catching sight of his lover across the room, Greg felt another rush of said happiness. Watching Mycroft approach, he smiled, “Looks like I’m in for another dance. I know that look.”

 

          ******

 

          “Look,” Molly said resting her head on Sherlock’s shoulder and smiling dreamily, “Rosie’s fallen asleep in John’s arms.” They were sitting at the bridal party table, looking somewhat rumpled after hours of partying and dancing; Sherlock had abandoned his tie hours before, his boutonniere was missing in action, and his curls were wild. Molly had the idea that her own hair was rather rumpled, but at this point she didn’t care, as there were no doubt plenty of suitable pictures taken earlier in the night. She had eased out of her heels and had her feet elevated on the chair next to her, thankful to take a break.

          Sherlock regarded his best friend, who was “dancing” with his daughter in his arms, her curly head resting on his chest, her hand clutching a boutonniere—ah, that was where it had gotten to. “She acquitted herself well today and has earned a rest. Watson was so excited at the prospect of being flower girl that it was all she could talk of this past month.”

          “Aww…” Molly’s coo was cut off midway by a yawn. She nudged Sherlock with her shoulder, “I’m tired and it’s late and I’m wondering if we can slip away while no one’s looking.”

          “Without saying goodbye and enduring a thousand hugs and well-wishes and still more photographs, all while getting pelted in rice?” Sherlock sat up straight, “Molly Hooper, I love you.”

          “Molly _Holmes_ , thank you very much.” Molly batted her eyelashes, “Everyone expects you to be rude and ill-mannered anyway, I’ll blame it on you.”

          “Charming,” he smirked. Standing he glanced around casually, “I’m going toward the terrace as if I want a smoke, wait a few minutes then act as if you’re headed for the Ladies. I’ll meet you at John’s car.”

          “How—“

          He held up the keys, “I picked his pocket, just in case.”

          Sherlock murmured and nodded as he slipped through the crowd. It was getting late and all these people needed to leave. Honestly, how long did they expect him to wait to defer his nuptial night? He had nearly made it out of the room when he heard his name being called from behind him. It was John, so he paused, looking back, and then he was surrounded.

 

******

 

          “Molly, dear, surely you didn’t expect we’d let you leave your own wedding early?”

          “No, Mrs. Hudson, that’s why I was trying to sneak out.”

          “Silly girl,” Mrs. Hudson tsked, “This day was something we all looked forward to as being nearly impossible at one point, we’re not going to let the two of you skulk off without a proper send-off.”

          “I can’t believe you’d cheat us of waving the two of you off in a shower of rose petals,” her new mother-in-law sighed.

          Molly writhed in embarrassment. “It was all Sherlock’s idea!” She blurted, eyes wide and innocent.

          “Of course it was,” Janine rolled her eyes, “But you’re meant to be the sensible one, Molly.”

          “Well bugger _that_ ,” Molly grumbled, “that sounds boring as piss.”

          “Molly!” Meena hurried up, Molly’s heels in her hand, “Were you actually going to just run off after all the planning I put into this reception?”

          “Erm…”

          “Honestly, I think that lanky git is a bad influence on you—no offense intended, Mummy Holmes.”

          “None taken, dear.”

          “We just want to be alone,” Molly wailed softly, “It’s my wedding day and everyone has been looking at me and photographing me and hugging and kissing and hovering over me all day and I want to be alone with Sherlock and shag his brains out! Sorry, Mummy.”

          “No need to apologize, sweetheart,” Violet beamed at her, “Why didn’t you say so? That’s a whole different matter!”

          Molly perked up, “So you’ll let me go?”

          “Heavens no,” Mrs. Hudson said briskly, “We’ve all been waiting for this day for far too long. No, you can’t sneak off—but we’ll expedite the process. Ladies?”

 

******

 

          Less than an hour later the newly wedded couple tumbled into the back of their limo and waved at their well-wishers. “Go!” Sherlock instructed the driver, and slammed the door. He rolled up the privacy window and turned to Molly. “You just had to give in to Mummy’s sob story, didn’t you?”

          “What about you?” Molly countered, struggling to untangle her layers of skirts, crinolines and slip. “You let John and the rest of them catch you.” 

          “I was distracted,” he muttered, busying himself with shrugging out of his jacket. “I was thinking about what you were wearing under that skirt.”

          “Don’t get too excited,” Molly giggled, “I have on foundation garments, stockings, a slip, two crinolines and somewhere under all that is me.”

          He was disappointed, “So no limo sex?”

          “Not unless you brought a pair of scissors and can cut me out of my undergarments.”

          Brandishing a knife, Sherlock regarded her with a glint in his eyes, “I come prepared.”

          Molly started to breathe a little heavier, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love you.”

          They managed to make it to the hotel, just. The driver, cleaning out the limo the next morning, was surprised but not shocked to find a pair of neatly dissected support knickers and a shredded pair of stockings abandoned on the seat. Newlyweds.


End file.
